I'M HIS ALONE

CHAPTER 1

ACT ONE: THE CAPTURE

THE DEPT

The rain fell in sheets against the tinted windows of the black Escalade, turning the Brooklyn streets into a blur of neon and wet asphalt. Dante Romano sat in the backseat, his long fingers steepled beneath his chin, his gray eyes fixed on nothing and everything at once. The city breathed around him-his city-and tonight, he was here to collect what was owed.

"The place is up ahead, Boss," Luca said from the driver's seat, his voice steady, respectful. "Giovanni Marchetti's apartment. Third floor."

Dante didn't respond immediately. He rarely did. At thirty years old, he had learned that silence was more powerful than words, that the space between sentences could make a man sweat more than any threat. He was the Don of the Romano crime family, the youngest in New York history to hold such power, and he hadn't achieved that by being verbose.

"How much does he owe?" Dante asked, his voice a low rumble that matched the thunder outside.

"Two million, give or take. Gambling debts from three casinos, plus the vig. He's six months behind on payments."

Dante's jaw tightened. In his world, debt was sacred. A man's word was his bond, and Giovanni Marchetti's word was apparently worth less than the air it took to speak it. That kind of disrespect couldn't go unanswered-not if Dante wanted to maintain the fear and loyalty that kept his empire running.

The SUV pulled up to a run-down apartment building in Red Hook, and Dante stepped out into the rain. He didn't bother with an umbrella. The cold water against his skin was a reminder that he was alive, that he was real, that all of this-the power, the money, the constant danger-wasn't some dream he would wake from. Two of his soldiers fell into step behind him, their presence unnecessary but expected. Everyone in this neighborhood knew who Dante Romano was. No one would be stupid enough to challenge him.

The third-floor hallway smelled like mildew and fried food. Dante walked with unhurried steps, his Italian leather shoes silent on the worn carpet. He didn't knock on Giovanni's door-he didn't need to. One of his men produced a key, earned from the building's superintendent with a combination of cash and implied threats, and the door swung open.

Giovanni Marchetti was a man in his fifties who looked two decades older. He sat at a kitchen table scattered with losing lottery tickets and empty beer bottles, his face gaunt, his hands trembling. When he saw Dante enter, the color drained from his already-pale features, and he stumbled to his feet, knocking over a chair in the process.

"Mr. Romano," Giovanni stammered, his voice cracking. "I-I was going to come see you. I have some money. Not all of it, but-"

"Sit down, Giovanni." Dante's voice was soft, almost gentle, but it carried the weight of absolute authority.

Giovanni sat. Hard.

Dante moved through the small apartment with predatory grace, taking in the details-the overdue bills on the counter, the pawn tickets, the empty refrigerator. This man had nothing. He was a bottomless pit of bad decisions and worse luck. Dante had seen it a thousand times before. But that wasn't his concern. His concern was the two million dollars this pathetic creature had borrowed from his family's operations.

"You know why I'm here," Dante said, standing over the table. He didn't sit. He never sat during collections. It was a power thing.

"I need more time," Giovanni pleaded, his eyes wet. "Just a few more months. I have a lead on a job-"

"You've had six months." Dante's eyes were cold, merciless. "In my business, time is money. Your time has run out."

It was then that the bedroom door opened.

Dante's head turned-slowly, deliberately-and the world seemed to stop.

She stood in the doorway in an oversized university sweatshirt and leggings, her dark wavy hair tousled from sleep, her emerald green eyes blinking with confusion that quickly turned to fear. She was curvy in all the ways that made a man's hands itch, her creamy olive skin glowing under the harsh apartment light, her full lips parted in surprise. She couldn't have been more than twenty-three, twenty-four at most. Young. Innocent. Completely out of place in this squalid apartment filled with desperation.

"Dad?" she said, her voice like honey and smoke. "What's going on?"

Dante felt something shift in his chest-a sensation he hadn't experienced in years, maybe ever. It wasn't just desire, though God knew he felt that too, instant and fierce and shockingly intense. It was something deeper, something primal. Something that whispered mine with a certainty that bordered on madness.

"Bella, go back to your room," Giovanni said quickly, too quickly. "This doesn't concern you."

But Bella didn't move. Her eyes were locked on Dante, taking in his tailored black suit, his broad shoulders, the scar that ran along his sharp jawline, the darkness that seemed to emanate from him like a physical force. She should have been terrified-and she was, Dante could see it in the rapid pulse at her throat-but she didn't run. She stood her ground, chin lifting slightly, those emerald eyes flashing with defiance even through her fear.

And in that moment, Dante Romano, who had everything money could buy and blood could claim, knew with absolute certainty that he would have her. That he would take her, keep her, make her his in every way a man could possess a woman. The debt her father owed suddenly seemed like divine intervention-a reason, an excuse, a means to an end that ended with this beautiful creature in his bed, in his home, in his life. Forever.

"Who are you?" Bella asked, her voice steadier than it should have been.

Dante smiled. It wasn't a pleasant expression. "I'm the man your father owes two million dollars to."

The color left Bella's face, but she didn't look away. "Then take it up with him. I have nothing to do with his debts."

Brave. She was so f*****g brave. Dante felt his fascination deepen into something darker, something hungrier.

"Bella," he repeated her name, tasting it. It suited her. Beautiful. "Isabella."

"Don't say my name like that," she snapped, and Dante's smile widened.

"Your daughter has spirit, Giovanni," Dante said, not taking his eyes off Bella. "That changes things."

Giovanni's face went from pale to ashen. "Mr. Romano, please-she's innocent. She doesn't know anything about my-about what I do. She's a good girl. She goes to NYU. She's getting her degree in art history."

Dante barely heard him. He was memorizing Bella-every curve, every shadow, every rapid breath that made her chest rise and fall. He wanted to touch that hair, see if it was as soft as it looked. He wanted to run his thumb over those lips, feel them tremble beneath his touch. He wanted to hear her say his name when she was desperate and begging and completely at his mercy.

"Here's what's going to happen," Dante said, his voice dropping to a register that made Giovanni shiver and Bella's eyes widen. "You have twenty-four hours to gather whatever you can. A hundred thousand. Consider it a gesture of good faith. The rest..." He paused, letting the silence stretch. "The rest will be worked off another way."

"I don't have a hundred thousand!" Giovanni cried. "I don't have anything!"

"That's not my problem." Dante finally looked at the older man, his expression cold. "Twenty-four hours. Don't make me come back."

He turned toward the door, then stopped beside Bella. She was even more beautiful up close-close enough that he could smell her, vanilla and something uniquely her, something that made his mouth water and his body tighten with need. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, feeling her shudder as his warm breath ghosted over her skin.

"I'll be seeing you again, Bella," he whispered, low enough that only she could hear. "Very soon."

Then he was gone, leaving behind two people whose lives had just been irrevocably changed-and one man who didn't yet realize that his daughter was about to become the collateral he never knew he had to pay.

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