Chapter 7 - The Daylight Beg
The kiss was not soft, cautious, or gentle. It was a sudden, violent eruption of three years of cold isolation breaking against raw, unyielding passion.
Dante’s lips claimed hers with overwhelming authority, his mouth drinking her in as if he were a drowning man tasting air for the first time in his life. His arms wrapped around her small waist, lifting her completely off her feet and pulling her flush against his broad chest.
Norah gasped into his mouth, her arms instinctively wrapping around his thick neck, her fingers digging into his dark hair. The sensation was intoxicating—a roaring wave of heat that traveled straight from her lips to the very core of her soul.
Dante groaned deep in his chest, backing up until his thighs hit the edge of the heavy mahogany desk. He lifted her easily, setting her down on the polished edge of the desk, stepping between her open knees so there was no space left between them.
His hands moved frantically, possessively over her body—tracing the curve of her waist, slipping under the hem of her emerald sweater to feel the smooth, burning heat of her skin, lingering against her ribs as her heart hammered violently under his touch.
“Dante...” Norah breathed against his mouth, her head spinning with a wild, breathtaking ecstasy she had never dreamed existed.
Dante pulled his lips an inch away, his heavy breathing brushing hot against her mouth, his dark eyes glowing with an unholy light. His face was flushed, his jaw tight, his broad chest rising and falling violently as his body—fully, completely awakened—demanded everything she had to give.
“Look at what you do to me,” Dante whispered hoarsely, taking her hand and placing her small palm flat against his chest, right over his thunderous, racing heart. “Look at me, Norah. I am a Don. I rule this city. Men fall to their knees when I enter a room.”
He leaned down, burying his face into the side of her neck, pressing hot, desperate kisses along her sensitive collarbone, making her arch her back against his hands.
“And here I am,” Dante groaned against her skin, his voice breaking with raw, unfiltered surrender. “In broad daylight... begging a maid to love me.”
Norah’s eyes filled with tears of pure, overwhelming emotion. She held his heavy head against her neck, her fingers running through his thick hair, feeling the sheer, terrifying depth of his surrender to her.
He wasn't forcing her. He wasn't controlling her. The most powerful, feared man in Chicago was laying his formidable heart at her feet, offering her total power over him.
“I’m not begging you to leave, Dante,” Norah whispered, kissing his dark temple, his jawline, and finally settling her lips against his once more. “I’m staying right here.”
Dante’s grip tightened around her waist, his body trembling with the intensity of his restraint as he held her on the edge of the sunlit desk, drinking her in under the bright afternoon sky.
The intimate silence in the library was shattered twenty minutes later by a sudden, heavy knock at the double mahogany doors of the penthouse suite.
Dante didn't immediately move away. He kept his forehead resting against Norah’s, his breathing slowly steadying as he stroked her back through her soft sweater.
“Boss,” Marco’s voice called out from the hallway, sounding tense and unusually brisk. “Mrs. Moretti has arrived at the private lift landing.”
Dante’s eyes opened, the dark heat instantly turning back into sharp, protective steel.
He stepped back slowly, holding Norah’s hand, helping her down from the desk. He smoothed her sweater, his large hands lingering gently on her waist as he looked into her flustered, beautiful face.
“My mother is here,” Dante said quietly.
Norah’s heart gave a sudden jump. “Your mother?”
“She heard about yesterday morning,” Dante explained, his voice flat and unbothered. “She wants to meet the woman who ruined her plans for the Serrano alliance.”
“Dante... I don't belong here with high-society people,” Norah said, sudden self-doubt creeping into her mind. “What if she—”
Dante caught her chin in his hand, his thumb pressing firmly against her chin until she looked him directly in the eye.
“Listen to me, Norah,” Dante said, his voice dropping into that absolute, dangerous authority. “You are the only woman who belongs in this tower. My mother does not command this residence. I do. Stand beside me, keep your head high, and remember who protects you.”
Norah looked into his steadfast eyes, taking a deep breath. She nodded. “Okay.”
Dante linked his fingers through hers, and together, they walked out of the library into the massive penthouse living room just as the heavy frosted glass doors chimed open.
Stepping into the room was Eleanor Moretti.
Dressed in a pristine gray wool coat, wearing black leather gloves and diamonds, Eleanor walked into the penthouse with the presence of a queen inspecting a conquered territory. Walking two paces behind her was two armed bodyguards in dark suits.
Eleanor stopped in the center of the vast living room, her sharp gray eyes instantly falling upon the joined hands of her son and the young woman standing at his side.
For three long seconds, no one spoke. The atmosphere in the penthouse was thick with invisible tension, like a bowstring pulled to its absolute limit.
Eleanor’s eyes slowly traveled up from Norah’s simple green sweater, past her slender neck, and fixed onto her striking blue eyes and dark auburn hair. Eleanor was searching for greed, searching for fear, searching for the cheap trickery of an ambitious temp worker trying to trap a billionaire.
Instead, Eleanor saw a young woman holding Dante’s hand not with desperate, clinging fear—but with quiet, dignified strength. And more importantly, Eleanor saw how Dante stood half an inch in front of the girl, his broad frame strategically shielding her shoulder, his entire body relaxed yet coiled like a spring, ready to strike if anyone made a move toward her.
“Mother,” Dante said cold-bloodedly, breaking the silence. “You didn't send notice.”
Eleanor slowly took off her black leather gloves, her expression unreadable. “A mother does not need notice to visit her son’s home, Dante. Especially when her son has made decisions that have caused three Capos to call my house before noon.”
Eleanor stepped closer, her eyes remaining pinned on Norah.
“Is this the girl?” Eleanor asked, her voice calm, refined, and sharp as a razor.
“This is Norah Hail,” Dante said, his grip on Norah’s hand firming. “And she is the only guest in this residence who matters.”
Eleanor stopped three feet away from them. She looked into Norah’s eyes for a long, heavy moment.
“Miss Hail,” Eleanor spoke softly, her sharp tone softening just a fraction. “Do you know who my son is?”
“I know he is Dante Moretti,” Norah replied clearly, her voice surprisingly steady, refusing to look down at the polished floor.
“Do you know what he does?” Eleanor continued, stepping an inch closer. “Do you know that men die on his orders? Do you know that being near him makes you a target for every rival family from New York to Miami?”
Norah felt Dante’s hand tighten around hers, felt the tension in his arm ready to pull her away. But Norah didn't flinch.
“I know he shielded me with his own body when steel was falling,” Norah said, her blue eyes shining with absolute conviction. “And I know that in two days, he has given me more respect, freedom, and protection than anyone else ever has in my entire life.”
Eleanor Moretti stared at Norah. The sharp, suspicious lines on her aged face slowly relaxed.
For the first time in four years, a small, subtle smile touched the matriarch’s lips.
May you like
Eleanor turned her gaze to her son. She saw the fierce, unyielding pride in Dante’s eyes, saw the raw, pulsing life in a man who had been a cold ghost for three long years.
“She stays,” Eleanor said softly, repeating Dante’s own words from the elevator floor.
