Chapter 2 - The Logic of Wolves
Dante Salvatore did not release her wrist.
His thumb rested lightly against her pulse point, feeling the frantic, hummingbird flutter of her heartbeat beneath his skin. He didn’t look angry. He looked... curious. Like a scientist who had just discovered a rare, venomous insect crawling across his desk.
“Please,” Ava whispered, her voice cracking as she tried to pull her hand back. “I’m sorry. It was a mistake. I was paid—I mean, I tripped.”
A dark, humorless smile touched the corner of Dante’s mouth. It didn't reach his eyes. “A waitress in a rented vest trips and accidentally plants a passionate kiss on Dante Salvatore during a charity gala? Boston must have very clumsy service staff this season.”
Across the room, Celeste Vance looked like she was about to vomit into her champagne flute. Her eyes were wide with terror, her hands shaking so violently she dropped her clutch onto the marble floor. She knew what Dante Salvatore did to people who crossed him, and she knew she had just used an innocent pawn to play a very dangerous game.
Dante’s dark eyes shifted past Ava, fixing on Celeste for a single, devastating fraction of a second. The message in that look was clear enough to make Celeste burst into tears and flee toward the exit doors, abandoning her friends and her pride.
Dante turned his attention back to Ava. He let go of her wrist, though she didn't dare run. Her legs felt like lead.
“What is your name?” he asked, his voice low and rhythmic.
“Ava,” she managed to squeak out. “Ava Monroe.”
“Mmh. Ava.” Dante reached into his jacket pocket. He didn’t pull out a gun or a switchblade; he pulled out a pristine, heavy linen business card and a gold fountain pen. He scribbled a string of digits across the back, then pressed the card firmly into her trembling palm, curling her fingers over it.
“Your shift is over, Ava,” Dante said smoothly. “Go to the cloakroom, collect your coat, and wait by the side entrance on Beacon Street. A black sedan will pick you up in ten minutes.”
Ava stared down at the card. “I... I have to finish my shift. My manager—”
“Your manager is currently hiding in the pantry, praying I don't buy his restaurant and turn it into a parking lot,” Dante interrupted softly, his gaze never leaving hers. “Go to Beacon Street. If you aren’t there, I’ll find you. And trust me, you don’t want me having to look for you twice.”
Without waiting for an answer, Dante turned his back on her, walking away with the smooth, unbothered stride of a king strolling through his ruins.
Ten minutes later, driven by a mixture of sheer terror and the five thousand dollars burning in her apron pocket, Ava found herself standing on the freezing pavement of Beacon Street.
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A sleek, bulletproof black Maybach idled at the curb. The rear door clicked open automatically.
A man in a dark suit leaned out. “Get in, Miss Monroe. Mr. Salvatore is waiting.”
