Page 73 of His Son's Ex

Dante’s tone darkens. “Goddamn it. Grab essential stuff, but don’t waste time. Anything you need, we can get for you. You have to leave, get somewhere public.”

My knees threaten to buckle. “Okay,” I manage. “Where are you?”

“Just crossed into the city, but we’re turning around right now.”

A beat of silence.

“Stay on the line with me?” I hate how needy I sound.

“Of course,” he replies.

It feels like a fever dream as I toss clothes, bathroom essentials, my laptop, phone charger, and some personal documents into a duffel. My hands are shaking so bad I drop things twice.

“OK, leaving now.”

Finally, I race out the door, duffel slung over my shoulder. I turn to lock up out of habit on the way out before rememberingthat the damn thing is broken. I run down the stairs and head outside.

“Where are you now?” Dante asks.

“Outside my building,” I tell him, scanning the dark street. “I’ll head to the little coffee shop on the corner. It’s open late.”

“Good. Stay there. I’m close.” He hesitates, then adds, “Stay in public view.”

“Got it.”

I hurry down the two blocks, heart pounding the entire way. I duck inside, the barista eyeing me suspiciously as I throw my duffel onto a table and sink into the chair, phone clutched to my chest.

“Dante?” I say, ignoring the odd looks from the few patrons around me.

“Two minutes away,” he says. His calm, controlled tone is all that’s keeping me from completely falling apart.

I bury my face against the bag, trying to focus on my breathing. I repeat the wordsI’m safeover and over in my head but my mind still races with questions:

How did they find me? Will they come back?Am I on borrowed time?

Time feels warped, but soon headlights wash over the café’s windows. I look up and see Dante stepping out of his limo, scanning the street before stepping inside.

The second I see him, I lose whatever composure I had left. He crosses the tiny space in two strides. When he kneels next to me, I practically collapse against him.

“They left me a bullet,” I choke out, repeating the words, the tears finally spilling over. “Two, actually.”

“Shh,” he says as he helps me stand, guiding me toward the door. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” He gestures for his driver to grab my bag, holding me tight against his side as we head to the car. “We’re getting out of here.”

He opens the door and we slip inside. The driver places my bag in the trunk then quickly pulls away. I sob quietly against Dante’s shoulder; the fear, the shock, and the overwhelming sense of helplessness crashing down.

He wraps his arms around me, one hand stroking my hair.“You’re okay,” he whispers. “I promise.”

After a moment, I pull back, wiping my eyes. “I’m sorry. I can’t believe this is happening.”

His jaw clenches. “They’re just trying to scare you. It could’ve been the Lombardi’s, could’ve been someone from your past, or maybe someone else who hates me. Either way, you’re not going back to your apartment.”

When we pull up to his high-rise, everything appears deceptively normal. The doorman greets us with a polite nod as we head straight to the private elevator and up to the penthouse floor, his hand tightly holding mine the whole way.

He opens the door with his keycard and we step into the quiet of the penthouse, Dante turning on lights as he goes. It seems all is well until we enter the kitchen and Dante stops cold.

“What the hell?” he mutters.

My eyes follow his gaze.