The heavy blood-diamond ring on my left hand sat like a brand against my skin, a constant reminder of the dark, consuming vows Dante had claimed me with three nights ago.
I sat at the wide mahogany desk in the West Wing study, but I wasn't looking at the balance sheets for the newly absorbed Moretti shipping lines. I was staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows, my pulse quickening as the heavy oak doors swung open.
Dante walked in.
He didn't look like the polished corporate Don who had placed a twenty-carat ruby on my finger under the crystal chandeliers. His formal jacket was gone. His crisp white dress shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, revealing the hard, scarred planes of his collarbone, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He radiated a primal, storm-like energy that ins
