Trapped BY My Reckless Mafia Lord

CHAPTER 2: THE DEVIL HAS A NAME

Dante Stark was not supposed to be here.

He was supposed to be in his penthouse, or in one of his boardrooms, or anywhere else in this city except standing three feet away from me in a bar I had stumbled into by accident.

Yet here he was.

Six feet three inches of pure, controlled danger. Dark hair slightly disheveled like he had been running his hands through it. His suit jacket was gone but his white dress shirt was still buttoned almost to the top, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He held a glass of dark liquor loosely in one hand like he owned the entire establishment.

Maybe he did.

"Mr. Stark," I said, and my voice only cracked slightly. "What are you doing here?"

He tilted his head, studying me the way a wolf studies something small and cornered. "I own this place." His voice was low and unhurried. "The better question is what are you doing here, Kisarel? Alone. Crying into cheap whiskey at eleven at night."

"I wasn't crying."

His eyes dropped briefly to my cheek. "You missed a spot."

I wiped my face quickly, hating him a little for noticing. Hating myself more for caring.

"I'm fine," I said, turning back to the bar. "Just unwinding after the business trip. I'll be ready for the dinner tomorrow, Mr. Stark. You don't need to worry about me."

He didn't leave.

I could feel him still standing there, his presence pressing against my back like heat from an open flame. Then he pulled out the barstool beside me and sat down without being invited.

"You don't look fine," he said simply.

"And you don't look like someone who makes casual conversation with his employees," I shot back. "So why don't we both pretend this didn't happen and go our separate ways."

Something flickered in his dark eyes. Amusement maybe. Or something else entirely.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Nothing that concerns you."

"Kisarel."

Just my name. Nothing else. But the way he said it made my spine straighten. Like it was a command wrapped in velvet.

I stared at my glass for a long moment. The alcohol had loosened something inside me that probably should have stayed locked tight. When I finally spoke, I couldn't even explain why I was telling him.

"I came home and found my fiancé in bed with someone else," I said flatly. "Someone I trusted. Someone I loved like a sister." I laughed but it sounded hollow even to my own ears. "Eight months. He had been doing it for eight months while I was busy planning our wedding and picking out flowers and believing everything he told me."

Silence stretched between us.

"So yes," I continued, raising my glass in a mock toast. "I am sitting here alone drinking cheap whiskey. Because tonight I deserve to."

I expected him to say something professional. Something distant and appropriate for a boss comforting an employee. A polite word and then a quiet exit.

Instead, he signaled the bartender with two fingers.

"Bring us a bottle," he said. "The good one. Not whatever you've been serving her."

The bartender moved immediately. Everybody always moved immediately for Dante Stark.

"You don't have to stay," I told him.

"I know," he said.

But he stayed anyway.

The bartender set a crystal bottle between us and poured two fresh glasses. Dante lifted his and held it toward me.

"To the people who show you their true face eventually," he said quietly. "No matter how long it takes."

Something about the way he said it made me think he wasn't just talking about Ryan.

I touched my glass to his and drank.

The whiskey was completely different this time. Smooth and warm, settling in my chest like a slow fire. I understood immediately why rich people paid so much for the good stuff. It didn't burn. It just made everything feel slightly softer around the edges.

"Who was it?" Dante asked after a while.

I looked at him sideways. "Does it matter?"

"It matters to me."

I studied his face, trying to understand why. His expression was unreadable in the dim light, all sharp angles and quiet intensity. This was a man who had built an empire on being impossible to read.

"My cousin," I said finally.

Something shifted in his jaw. A small tightening that lasted only a second before his face settled back into calm. "I see."

"Her name is Valentina," I added, watching him carefully now.

He went very still.

Not the casual stillness of someone simply listening. This was a different kind of still. The kind that animals go just before something dangerous happens.

"Valentina," he repeated. His voice was completely even. Too even.

"Yes." I searched his face. "You know, this is the part where you tell me you're sorry or offer some advice about moving on. That's what people do."

"I'm not most people."

"No," I agreed softly. "You really aren't."

We sat in silence for a while, the soft music from the speakers filling the space between us. I was very aware of how close he was. Close enough that I could smell his cologne. Something dark and expensive that made my thoughts go places they had absolutely no business going.

He was my boss.

He was Valentina's fiancé. The same Valentina who had just destroyed my life.

There were a thousand reasons to slide off that barstool and walk away.

I didn't move.

"You should go home and sleep," he said eventually. "Tomorrow's dinner is important."

"I don't have a home tonight," I said. "I left. I'm not going back there."

He looked at me for a long moment. "I have a hotel suite. Separate rooms. You can stay there tonight."

Every logical part of my brain screamed no.

"Why are you being kind to me?" I asked. "You're never kind to anyone. Everyone in the office is terrified of you."

The corner of his mouth moved. Just barely. "Maybe I have my reasons."

"That's not an answer."

"No," he agreed. "It isn't."

He stood and buttoned the single undone button on his shirt with quiet efficiency. Then he held out his hand to me.

I looked at it for a long moment. His hand was large, with a faded scar running along the edge of his palm that I had never noticed before.

Against every reasonable instinct I possessed, I took it.

His fingers closed around mine and the warmth of his grip traveled all the way up my arm.

We walked toward the exit together. The cool night air hit us the moment the door opened and I shivered involuntarily.

Without a word, Dante shrugged off his jacket and settled it over my shoulders.

I looked up at him, startled.

He wasn't looking at me. His eyes were fixed somewhere across the dark street, his jaw tight, his expression suddenly hard in a way that had nothing to do with me.

"Get in the car," he said quietly. His voice had changed completely. The warmth from moments ago was gone.

"What? Why? What's wrong?"

"Kisarel." His hand pressed gently but firmly against my back, guiding me toward the waiting black car. "Get in. Now."

"Dante, what is..."

That was when I saw it.

A black van parked across the street with its lights off. Three men standing beside it, all dressed in dark clothing, all watching us with an intensity that made my stomach drop.

And one of them was holding a photograph.

He turned it slightly as his eyes moved between the image and my face.

It was a photograph of me.

"Now," Dante said, his voice dropping to something quiet and absolutely terrifying. "Get in the car right now."