Chapter 2

Dante came back the next morning smelling like Sienna's vanilla perfume and the leather interior of his Escalade. He shook me awake like it was any other Tuesday.

"Babe. Enough with the attitude." He dropped onto the edge of the mattress, still in last night's clothes — black button-down, top three buttons undone, the edge of his collarbone tattoo peeking out. "I crashed at Sienna's. We played COD all night. That's the whole story."

He placed something on the pillow next to me. A small carrier. Inside, a white rabbit with pink-rimmed eyes blinked up at me.

My chest locked.

I hadn't kept a rabbit since I was nine. Since something happened — something I'd only ever told one person, in the dark, with his arms around me. Dante knew. He was the only one who knew.

"Figured it was time." His voice dropped — not soft, exactly, but close. The voice he used when he wanted something to land. "You've been holding onto that too long, Nora. I'm calling her Lola."

He reached past me and ran his thumb along the rabbit's ear. His forearm brushed my shoulder — warm, deliberate, lingering a beat too long.

My fingers found the fur before I could stop them. Lola pressed into my palm, trusting and still, and something behind my ribs loosened against my will.

I hated this. Hated how one gesture from him could blur everything — the soup on my scalp, the Instagram post, the sound of his chair scraping back as he walked out of that restaurant without turning around. All of it dimmed when he leaned close enough for me to smell his skin beneath the cologne.

"Look at me."

His hand came up. Knuckles first, grazing my jaw — then his fingers slid under my chin and tilted my face toward him. It was the kind of touch that lived in the space between tenderness and command. A Moretti habit. You don't ask. You direct.

His eyes held mine — dark, steady, unreadable. "The crew's got a set in Miami this weekend. Private venue. Family-connected." A pause. His thumb shifted against my jawline, barely there. "I want you in the front row."

I stopped breathing.

Dante's band was a side project — him, Sienna, a few sons from allied families. Something the organization allowed because it kept the heirs visible and the younger soldiers loyal. I'd begged to go for years. He always shut it down. I didn't get his sound. I'd be out of place. His crowd wasn't my crowd.

Now his thumb was tracing the line of my jaw and he was telling me front row.

"You're serious?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost the boy I fell in love with. "Your name's already on the list. Don Moretti's guest. Nobody touches you."

I looked down at Lola, still curled warm against my wrist. Then back at him.

"Okay."

He leaned in — lips brushing my forehead, brief and dry. The kind of kiss you give someone you're trying to keep, not someone you want.

Then his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and whatever had been human in his face clicked off like a light.

"Warehouse run. I'll send the flight details." He stood, straightened his collar, and walked out without closing the door.

The vanilla scent stayed on my pillow for hours.

……

The Miami venue was a converted art deco theater on Ocean Drive — bought, gutted, and rebuilt with Moretti money. Crystal fixtures. Armed security in tailored suits at every entrance. The crowd was curated: capos' wives, family associates, connected socialites who knew whose name was on the deed and smiled accordingly.

My seat was front row, dead center. It felt less like an invitation and more like a display case.

The lights cut. The band walked on.

Dante took center stage — guitar low on his hips, black shirt with the sleeves pushed up, the Moretti crest inked on his inner forearm catching the spotlight. He gripped the mic stand with one hand and scanned the crowd. His eyes passed over my row without stopping.

Sienna stepped up beside him. Bass slung across her body, hips cocked, red lips curved like she already knew something the rest of us didn't.

They opened hard and fast. Dante's voice came out raw — almost angry, scraped thin at the edges. Sienna matched him beat for beat, stepping into his space on the bridge, her shoulder pressing against his arm. He leaned toward her mic to harmonize, mouth inches from her neck. She tipped her head back and laughed mid-note, and the whole room leaned forward like they were watching a secret unfold.

The girl beside me dug her nails into her friend's wrist. "They are so fucking together. No way that's just chemistry."

My hands went cold in my lap.

The memory surfaced without permission — four years ago, a college showcase upstate. I'd skipped class and taken a three-hour train to surprise him. Showed up with a bouquet of roses pressed against my chest. Found him onstage with Sienna, the audience chanting kiss her, kiss her. He'd leaned in. She'd closed her eyes. Their lips had been a breath apart — and then he saw me in the crowd. Mascara ruined. Roses slipping from my fingers. He pulled back.

That was the last time he stopped.

The chant started again tonight. Different city. Different crowd. Same two syllables bouncing off the walls: Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.

Dante looked at Sienna. She looked at him.

He didn't hesitate.

His hand slid to the back of her neck — fingers threading into her hair the way they used to thread into mine — and he pulled her in. The kiss was slow. Sure. Not a stunt. Not a dare. His mouth moved against hers like he'd done it a hundred times before, and the theater lost its mind.

The girl next to me screamed.

I couldn't hear her.

I couldn't hear anything except my own blood — loud and wrong, pounding behind my eyes, filling my throat.

Four years ago, my face in the crowd was enough to stop him.

Tonight, he didn't even look.

I stood. The chair knocked backward. Nobody noticed — every phone in the room was aimed at the stage, recording the heir of the Moretti family kissing the consigliere's daughter like a coronation.

Outside, the rain was warm and immediate, soaking through my dress before I made it ten steps. I ducked under a torn awning, hands shaking, and reached into my bag.

The paper strip was damp at the edges. I folded it anyway — muscle memory by now, crease after crease — and dropped it into the jar I'd been carrying like a heartbeat I couldn't put down.

Ninety-seven.

My knees gave first. Then my vision — darkening at the edges, the neon signs on Ocean Drive bleeding into streaks. I felt my body tilt, felt the sidewalk rushing up —

And then arms. Warm. Steady. Unfamiliar.

A voice I didn't recognize, close to my ear: "Hey — hey. I got you. Stay with me."

Then nothing.