Chapter 6: The Uncle’s Ultimatum

Before we could form a plan, Dante’s secondary burner phone rang. He snatched it up, his eyes wide with paranoid adrenaline.

“Talk to me,” Dante commanded the phone.

His expression darkened into a mask of pure, lethal rage as he listened to the voice on the other end.

“When?” Dante barked. “How many men? Lock everything down. Nobody moves a single muscle without my direct authorization.”

He hung up, running a stressed hand through his perfectly styled hair.

“What happened?” I asked, my heart pounding in my throat.

“My uncle just seized three of my most profitable nightclubs,” Dante hissed. “He is moving his soldiers against me. He sees weakness. He thinks you are a distraction and that I am losing focus.”

Dante grabbed his suit jacket off the chair, his movements frantic and calculated.

“I need to go handle this immediately,” Dante ordered, pulling a heavy handgun from a hidden wall safe and tucking it into his waistband. “You stay right here. Do not open that door for anyone.”

“What about the meeting tomorrow?!” I demanded.

“You are absolutely not going,” Dante stated firmly. “I will deal with Salvatore myself.”

“He said people would get hurt if I don’t show up!”

“People are already getting hurt, Claire!” Dante yelled, his voice cracking. “At least this way, I know exactly where you are.”

He kissed me one last time, hard and desperate, and then the heavy steel doors of the elevator closed behind him. I was completely alone in the penthouse, trapped in a gilded cage while a mob war erupted outside.

I paced the hardwood floors until the sun began to rise over Lake Michigan.

At exactly noon the next day, my phone chimed with a new message.

“847 Riverside Drive. Warehouse District. Come alone. If you do not show, I will assume you are a coward, and I will take my severe frustration out on Dante.”

I stared at the glowing screen. Every logical instinct told me to barricade the door and hide. But the vivid image of Dante being tortured simply because I was too afraid to show up made my stomach violently turn.

I grabbed my jacket. I walked out of the penthouse.

The warehouse district was a decaying graveyard of industrial brick and cracked pavement. Number 847 was a massive, rusted structure covered in faded graffiti. I pushed open the heavy iron door and stepped inside.

The interior was dim, lit only by columns of dusty sunlight filtering through the shattered skylights. The space was mostly empty, save for a few wooden crates.

“Miss Dalton. Punctual. I deeply appreciate that,” a gravelly voice echoed from above.

I looked up. An older man stood on a rusted metal catwalk. He was in his late fifties, with striking silver hair and a face that would have been aristocratic if not for the violent scars carved into his jawline. Salvatore Moretti.

He slowly descended the metal staircase. Six heavily armed men followed closely behind him, their hands resting lazily on submachine guns.

“You are even prettier than the surveillance photos,” Salvatore noted, circling me like a shark. “I can clearly see why my nephew is so smitten. Though, I must admit, I expected someone a bit more intimidating.”

“You wanted to see me,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “I’m here.”

“You beat Leonardo,” Salvatore mused, stopping in front of me. “Very impressive. But you cost me a significant amount of money with that little stunt.”

“Send me an invoice,” I replied coldly.

Salvatore let out a booming laugh. “Spirit! I genuinely like that. My nephew usually prefers docile, obedient women. You are a refreshing change of pace.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I simply wanted to understand what makes you special enough to distract Dante from his sworn responsibilities,” Salvatore explained, his smile fading into a menacing scowl.

“I am not distracting anyone.”

“But you are,” Salvatore snapped. “He is making careless mistakes. He is losing focus. All because he is too busy playing the noble hero for a struggling waitress who knows how to throw a lucky punch.”

“That is not my fault,” I argued defensively.

“You chose to fight. You chose to accept his dinner invitation,” Salvatore countered, stepping dangerously close. “Every choice has brutal consequences in my world, Miss Dalton. I am here to teach you that lesson.”

One of his armed guards stepped forward and tossed a heavy duffel bag at my feet. Two pairs of red boxing gloves spilled out onto the concrete.

“Here is how this works,” Salvatore announced, unbuttoning his expensive suit jacket. “You are going to fight again. My choice of opponent this time.”

“And if I win?” I asked, eyeing the gloves.

“You walk out of here alive, and we forget this conversation ever happened.”

“And if I lose?”

Salvatore’s smile was downright demonic. “Let’s just say Dante will receive a very bloody package in the mail tomorrow.”

I looked at the six armed guards blocking the exits. There was no running. There was no escape. The only way out was through the violence.

“Who am I fighting?” I asked, kicking off my shoes.

Salvatore began wrapping his own hands with athletic tape. “Me.”

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