Chapter 2 - The Hollow Man
Four hours earlier, neither Dante Moretti nor Norah Hail had known the other existed. Their universes were separated by miles of asphalt, millions of dollars, and an unbridgeable chasm of social class. Yet, fate was already drawing them toward a violent collision.
Four hours earlier, Dante had been standing in a dimly lit, high-security medical office on the Near North Side, fastening his belt while Dr. Adrienne Wells closed a thick, confidential digital report on her tablet.
There was no nurse waiting outside in the hallway. No receptionist had ever entered Dante’s real name into a public or private database. Men who controlled hotels, international shipping ports, political loyalties, and half of Chicago’s fear did not allow private weaknesses to become digital records that could be bought, sold, or weaponized by rival syndicates.
“There is nothing physically wrong with you, Dante,” Dr. Wells said, her tone professional, though a hint of professional frustration lingered in her eyes.
Dante’s fingers paused against the heavy silver buckle of his trousers. His face was a mask of cold marble.
“Then explain three years.”
“Your cardiovascular health is exceptional. Your neurological reflexes are pristine. Your testosterone and hormone levels are entirely normal for a man of thirty-six. There is no physical injury, no neurological blockage, and no medical condition suppressing your ability to respond.”
“Can medication change it?” Dante’s voice was flat, devoid of hope, driven only by a cold demand for mechanics.
“There is nothing physical to medicate, Dante. Your body is biologically intact.”
Three years without desire.
Think about that. Three years without touching a woman because he actually wanted her. Since the night his younger sister died in a staged car bombing meant for him, something inside Dante’s nervous system had slammed shut. It was a self-preservation mechanism of a mind under constant siege.
Models had undressed in his bed, their champagne-soaked laughter echoing against the walls of his penthouse. Actresses had whispered sophisticated invitations against his ear. Heiresses from families powerful enough to sway congressional votes had offered beauty, absolute discretion, and every fantasy men were supposed to crave.
Dante could look at them, recognize their perfection with the cold eye of an art critic, and remain entirely untouched.
His body answered to no one. It was a machine that had forgotten how to burn.
He pulled on his black wool jacket, his jaw tight. “Then this appointment was useless.”
“Your body is still capable of responding,” Dr. Wells noted quietly as he walked toward the private door.
Dante stopped, his hand resting on the brushed steel handle. “To what?”
“I cannot tell you that, because I don't know what psychological trigger your brain locked away three years ago.”
“Then neither can you help me.”
He left the office before she could offer another word.
Marco waited by the black armored sedan parked in the underground alley. Silver marked his temples, but nothing about his powerful, thick-set frame suggested age had softened his lethality. He had served Dante’s father before Dante inherited the Moretti empire, and he knew instinctively when silence was far safer than curiosity.
“The tower?” Marco asked, holding the rear door open.
“Where else is there?” Dante muttered, sliding into the leather interior that smelled faintly of cedar and gun oil.
The black sedan entered the subterranean garage of Moretti Tower shortly before six that evening.
Camila Serrano waited beside the private elevator lobby, wearing a pale silver dress that shimmered like moonlight and carrying an expensive white leather bag. She was thirty-two, polished, wealthy, and exactly the woman Dante’s mother—and the entire Moretti inner circle—believed he should marry to solidify the alliance between the Moretti syndicate and the old-money Serrano shipping families.
“You missed our lunch meeting at the Drake,” she said smoothly, stepping forward as he stepped out of the car.
“I had an appointment.”
“Anything serious?”
“No.”
She stepped closer, invading his personal space with practiced confidence, and reached out to straighten a lapel that did not need adjusting. Her manicured fingertips lingered deliberately against his chest, right over his heart.
Dante stood completely still. He felt the physical pressure of her hand, the expensive warmth of her skin, the heavy French perfume she wore.
And nothing more. The interior of his mind remained as cold and empty as a winter tomb.
“The annual foundation charity gala is in three weeks,” Camila said, her eyes searching his face for any sign of yielding. “Your mother expects an announcement before then. People are starting to talk, Dante. A Don cannot remain unattached forever.”
“My mother often expects answers to questions that are not hers to ask,” Dante replied evenly, stepping past her toward the elevator bank.
Camila rose gracefully on her heels, matching his stride. She reached up toward his mouth, attempting a familiar, possessive intimacy.
Dante turned his head away with cold precision, letting her lips brush empty air.
Her smile remained fixed, but a flash of bitter ice hardened her eyes. “One day you will stop treating women as an inconvenient furniture.”
“And one day you may stop treating persistence as permission,” Dante retorted, his voice chilling the air around them.
The private elevator doors slid open. Dante stepped inside alone.
“The Serranos will not wait forever for a wedding ring,” Camila warned, her voice rising slightly as the doors began to close.
May you like
“Then give them something else to do,” Dante said.
The heavy steel doors shut, sealing her out.
