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Chapter One
Adele
TWO YEARS AGO
“So, Addy, what do you think of Chicago?” My boyfriend’s deep, almost musical baritone washes over me.
Dante gestures at the city skyline visible through the restaurant’s floor-to-ceiling windows, then rakes his fingers through his jaw-length hair—a simple yet distractingly sexy move.
A knot tightens in my belly as I follow Dante’s gaze to the bustling city beyond the plate glass. Something about Chicago calls to me like a siren song, as if offering secrets I was born to uncover.
Which makes absolutely no sense because I’ve never been here before. Before today, I’d never left Boston.
Chalking the strange feeling up to my persistent tendency to wax poetic, I say instead, “It’s a little . . . overwhelming.”
The glint in his steel-gray eyes sharpens as if he knows exactly what I mean. I’m not just talking about the city. Dante overwhelms me sometimes. Most of the time, if I’m being completely honest.
We’ve been dating for three months, mostly over the phone, because I wasn’t prepared to leave my comfort zone, and Dante doesn’t like to come to Boston. Except for the few times he’d suddenly appear outside my dorm, waiting for me in his tinted black Escalade.
And then last week, he suggested I spend the weekend with him.
I’ve always sensed there’s more to Dante than meets the eye. More than just being a hot, twenty-nine-year-old billionaire. It’s in the shadows shifting in his gray eyes, a familiar darkness under his polished exterior—a void that echoes my own hidden depths.
And something else. Restraint.
Dante speaks to me and touches me with exaggerated gentleness—as if afraid I might run if he unleashed the full force of his passion on me. So, when he practically ordered me to come to Chicago, I thought I glimpsed the real Dante Vitelli. Like a moth to flame, I was hooked. It didn’t matter that I’d never been on a plane or left Boston. I had to come.
And so, without telling my dad or my best friend and roommate Kira, I packed a bag and hopped on Dante’s jet.
“But just remember that you’re always in charge.” Dante’s voice brings me back to the present.
I release a nervous chuckle. “Somehow, that makes me feel even less in charge, Dante.”
His grin reveals a flash of white teeth and deep grooves in his cheeks. “Do you trust me though?” He reaches for my hand, turns my palm up, and starts to trace along the outer edge with his index finger. Instantly, my nerves settle, replaced by a more primal feeling.
I may not know Dante as much as I would like, but I trust him to keep me safe and look out for me, so I nod. “I trust you.”
Heat flares in his eyes. Something about those three words pleases him immensely. His gaze slowly dips to my cleavage, and I suppress a smile of feminine triumph. But I know what is driving him crazy is not so much the creamy orbs swelling over the neckline of my dress.
It’s the thin red scar running between my breasts, the top just visible in my dress.
“How’s your work going? You haven’t posted much recently,” Dante deliberately changes the subject.
By “work,” he’s not asking about my upcoming Forensics finals or dissertation. He’s referring to my weekly blog. A passion project where I dig into unsolved murders from the 1900s and brainstorm on how today’s detectives would solve them. Most people find my hobby weird or even slightly disturbing, but not Dante. He gets it.
Then again, Dante isn’t like most people.
I pick up my glass of red wine, savoring the burst of flavor on my tongue. “It’s going slow. I have more material than I know what to do with, but it’s been so hard with college deadlines. Hopefully, I’ll post something in the coming week.” I pause, feeling a little self-conscious. “I still can’t believe you read my blog, Dante.”
“Oh, we’re avid followers,” comes his cryptic reply.
“Who’s we?”
“My friends. You’ll get to meet them tomorrow. My brother too.”
“I will?” A thrill of excitement shoots through me at the thought of meeting his friends and getting to unravel more of the enigma that he is.
Dante’s smile turns almost predatory. He traces his index finger around the hair tie on my wrist—his hair tie. The arousal that had been simmering under my skin since we arrived blooms again, leaving a rosy flush on my skin, and I feel my nipples grow tight.
