Sherry Blake

Dante - Paperback

Name: Dante - Paperback
Brand: Sherry Blake
SKU: 9605175000810
Price: 17.99 USD
Availability: InStock

Sartori Syndicate Series, Book 6

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She survived a bullet, a surgery and two years of pretending she was fine.
She did not survive him knocking on her door.

He had a gun, a bleeding wound, and every reason to call for help.
He called no one.

Instead, Dante Castellani drove across Denver with a bullet lodged below his ribs and climbed four flights of stairs to the one door he had no right to knock on.

Marina Reeves had told him to stay away. He had. For two years, he'd watched her from a distance, tracking her schedule, memorizing her route, making sure she was safe from the world he'd dragged her into.

He never planned to need her.

But when he was dying, she was the only thing he wanted to see.

Marina has spent two years rebuilding something quiet. Something normal. Something with locked doors and no loose ends. She knows better than to let a wounded mafia enforcer bleed on her floor. She knows better than to call his family. She knows better than to hold towels against his wound and count his breaths through the night.

She does it anyway.

And when Dante Castellani stops bleeding long enough to tell her the truth — all of it — Marina discovers that surviving the Sartori world didn't break her as completely as she thought.

The dangerous part isn't the cartel hunting him.

It's that she doesn't want him to leave.

Dark. Obsessive. Earned.

This is the sixth book in the Sartori Syndicate series. Each book features a different couple and can be read as a standalone.

Chapter 1 Look Inside

Chapter 1
Marina
The phone buzzes at 7:03 a.m. Same time every morning.
I know who it is before I look. Mom has called at 7:03 a.m. for seven hundred and thirty days straight. Give or take.
"Hey, Mom."
"Good morning, sweetheart! Did I wake you?"
She didn't. I've been awake since 4:47, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster. But she doesn't need to know that.
"No, I was up." I wedge the phone between my ear and shoulder, reaching for the coffee pot. "Just making coffee."
"Oh good. I worry you don't sleep enough."
She worries about everything now. Sleep. Food. Whether I remembered to lock my door. Whether I'm eating enough vegetables. Whether the neighborhood is safe. Whether I'm happy.
The questions sound casual. They're not.
"I sleep fine, Mom."
The lie slides out easy. I've gotten good at lying to her. To everyone. The performance of fine has become second nature.
"What's on your schedule today?" she asks. Her voice is bright. Too bright. The kind of bright that takes effort.
I pour coffee into my favorite mug. "Work. We have a new group starting the art therapy program. Kids from the foster system."
"That sounds wonderful, honey. You're so good with children."
I am. Kids don't ask questions. They don't look at me with that careful concern, searching for cracks. They just want to paint and make messes and feel safe for an hour.
"How's Dad?" I ask, redirecting.
"Oh, you know your father. He's convinced the tomato plants need more sun, so he's been moving the pots around the patio all week. I told him they were fine where they were, but does he listen?"
I smile despite myself. "He never listens."
"Never." She laughs, but it fades too quick. "Marina, honey..."
Here it comes.
"Are you... is everything okay there? In Denver?"
The question underneath the question. Are you safe? Is anyone watching you? Has the past come knocking?
"Everything's fine, Mom." I take a sip of coffee. Too hot. Burns my tongue. "Same as always."
"Good. That's good." A pause. "You know you can always come home. Your room is exactly how you left it. Your father hasn't touched a thing."
My room. With the Northwestern pennant on the wall and the photos of me and Sophia at graduation. A time capsule of the girl I used to be. Before.
"I know, Mom."
"We just miss you. That's all."
"I miss you too."
I do. But going home means questions I can't answer. Looks I can't stand. The way my mother's eyes track to my hand every time she thinks I'm not watching.
"Call me tonight?" she asks. "After work?"
"I will."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
We say goodbye. I love yous exchanged like currency. I set the phone on the counter and stare at it for a long moment.
I finish my coffee standing at the counter. Sitting at the small table feels too permanent. Too much like settling in. I eat breakfast the same way—a piece of toast with peanut butter, consumed in four bites while I check my work email.
The apartment is quiet. Too quiet, sometimes. I keep the TV on low most nights, just for the noise. Just so the silence doesn't press in.
I shower with the bathroom door open. Need to hear if someone comes in.
The water pressure in this building is terrible, but I've stopped noticing. I wash my hair with the same shampoo I've used for three years. Sophia bought it for me once, said it would help me relax.
It doesn't. But I keep buying it anyway.
I dry off and stand in front of the mirror. The woman looking back at me is fine. Normal. Brown hair that needs a trim. Blue-green eyes with circles underneath that concealer mostly hides. A body that's thinner than it used to be because I forget to eat lunch more often than I remember.
Fine. Normal. Just a regular woman getting ready for work.
I reach for my moisturizer.
The jar slips. Hits the sink with a clatter that makes my heart jump into my throat.
I grab the edge of the counter with my left hand. Breathe. Count to five.
The cramp passes. It always does. I pick up the jar with my left hand and finish my routine one-handed, the way I've learned to do everything.
Getting dressed takes longer than it should. Buttons are a problem. I've switched to mostly pull-over tops, wrap dresses, anything that doesn't require fine motor control in my right hand.
Today it's a soft gray sweater and black pants. Professional but comfortable. The kind of outfit that says I have my life together without trying too hard.
I check the locks before I leave.
The routine is automatic now. I don't even think about it. My body just does it, the same way it maps the exits when I walk into a room, the same way it catalogs the faces of strangers on the street.
Hypervigilance, my therapist called it. Before I stopped going.
I call it staying alive.
My keys go in my left pocket. Phone in my right. Pepper spray clipped to the inside of my bag where I can reach it fast.
The gun stays in the closet. I don't need it for work.
I take the stairs instead of the elevator. Four flights down. Good exercise, I tell myself. Nothing to do with small enclosed spaces and the way my chest tightens when the doors close.
The morning air hits my face as I push through the building's front door. Denver in early spring—still cold enough to see my breath, but the sun is out. The mountains in the distance are capped with snow.
I pause on the steps. Scan the street. Left, right, across. The coffee shop on the corner. The dry cleaner that's never open when I need it. Mrs. Patterson walking her ancient beagle.
Normal. Safe. Just another Tuesday morning.
I start walking toward the bus stop, my right hand curled into a fist in my coat pocket.