THE POOR WAITRESS STOOD BETWEEN A PREGNANT WOMAN AND HER ABUSIVE HUSBAND—THEN THE MAFIA BOSS CLAIMED HER AND HER DAUGHTER BEFORE ALL OF CHICAGO

Inside Room 312, the quiet beep of the heart monitor was the only sound breaking the heavy silence.

Isabella sat propped up against two white pillows, her face pale, a clear IV tube running into the back of her hand. When the door swung open and Dante stepped inside, tears immediately spilled down her cheeks.

"Dante," she sobbed softly.

Dante was across the room in two strides. The cold, terrifying aura he carried in the hallway vanished instantly, replaced by a fierce, protective tenderness. He sat on the edge of the bed and wrapped his large, warm hands around hers.

"Izzy," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Are you in pain?"

"The doctors gave me medicine," she whispered, her voice cracking. "The baby... the baby is okay, Dante. They stopped the bleeding."

Dante smoothed a hand over her dark hair, his face softening as he kissed her forehead. "I know. The doctor spoke to me. You're safe now."

Then his eyes darkened, the temperature in the room dropping fifty degrees in a heartbeat. "Where is Chad?"

Isabella turned her face away, fresh tears staining the pillowcase. "He... he lost his temper behind the restaurant. I told him I didn't want to go to his mother's house. He grabbed me. When I fell, he left me on the pavement, Dante. He walked away."

Dante’s hand froze on her head. His face transformed into a mask of pure, absolute death.

"He left you bleeding in an alley," Dante said, his voice flat, monotonous, and utterly terrifying.

"If that girl hadn't stopped..." Isabella gripped his wrist with her weak fingers. "Dante, she stood between Chad and me. She let him push her down, but she got right back up. She put me in her own car and ran red lights to get me here. She saved my baby."

Dante closed his eyes for a long moment, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "I know."

"Did you thank her?" Isabella asked. "Her name is Delaney. She looked so tired, Dante. Her hands were bleeding."

Dante opened his eyes. The gray irises were stormy, dangerous, and distant. "I know who she is, Izzy."

Isabella blinked, confused. "What? How could you know her? She's a waitress at a diner downtown."

Dante reached into his inner suit pocket and pulled out a worn, silver pocket watch. He pressed the latch, popping the front cover open to reveal a faded, black-and-white photograph tucked inside the frame.

The photograph showed a stunning young woman with soft, wavy hair, striking green eyes, and a small crescent-shaped birthmark at her neck—standing beside a younger Dante six years ago in a sunlit garden in Florence.

Isabella gasped, her eyes moving from the photo to her brother's face. "Elena? But... Elena died in the warehouse fire in Genoa six years ago. You buried her!"

"I thought I buried her," Dante said, his voice dropping into a razor-thin whisper. "I identified a burned body wearing her ring. I spent six years tearing this city apart to avenge her death."

He snapped the watch shut with a loud click.

"The woman standing in the lobby downstairs," Dante continued, his jaw working as if chewing on glass, "has Elena's face, Elena's eyes, and Elena's mark. But she calls herself Delaney. And she looks at me as if she has never seen my face before in her life."

Isabella stared at him in shock. "Dante... is it possible she survived? Is it possible she lost her memory?"

Dante stood up from the bed, smoothing his suit jacket over his broad frame. The air around him bristled with an lethal, dangerous energy.

"I am going to find out," Dante said. "And if someone took her from me six years ago, hid her in this city, and made her work as a waitress in the mud while I bled for her ghost..."

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. The promise of total destruction hung heavy in the sterile room.

He turned toward the door. "Rest, Izzy. Salvatore is outside your door. Nobody enters this room without my key."