Chapter 5 - The Desperate Flight
Her golden heels clattered frantically across the white marble, sounding like the frantic heartbeat of a trapped animal.
Victoria had twenty yards between her position and the colossal mahogany double doors leading to the driveway.
If she could reach her luxury sedan idling under the portico, she could vanish into the maze of the Chicago night.
She could disappear with the offshore accounts she had already skimmed before Dante’s enforcers could lock down the perimeter.
Terror gave her speed, her long platinum waves whipping wildly across her shoulders as she sprinted across the foyer.
Her breath came in ragged, wheezing gasps, the fabric of her fitted gown restricting the frantic stride of her legs.
She did not look back, terrified that glancing over her shoulder would summon the devil who was already hunting her.
Dante did not shout, nor did he hesitate; his reaction was instantaneous and terrifyingly athletic.
He launched himself forward, closing the distance between them with terrifying, effortless acceleration.
His black dress shoes gripped the marble with seasoned certainty, chewing through the open space like a panther closing in on prey.
Victoria was only five feet from the polished brass handles of the main entrance when a black sleeve entered her vision.
Before her manicured fingers could graze the cold metal of the door, Dante’s hand snapped shut around her right wrist.
The grip was an inescapable vise of sinew and bone, halting her forward momentum so abruptly that she gasped in pain.
Her shoulder wrenched backward, her golden gown pulling taut against her waist as she spun toward him.
“Let me go! Dante, let me go, you beast!” Victoria shrieked, lashing out with her free hand, her sharp nails aiming for his eyes.
Dante shifted his head slightly, the manicured claws scraping harmlessly against the heavy wool of his tailored lapel.
She threw her entire body weight against him, thrashing like a wildcat, attempting to kick his shins with the sharp points of her heels.
Her aristocratic facade was completely gone, replaced by the feral, desperate frenzy of a cornered predator facing execution.
She bared her teeth, screaming profanities into his face as she tried to twist her trapped arm out of his iron grasp.
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Dante did not strike her, nor did he pull a weapon from the leather holster hidden beneath his jacket.
He simply leaned his massive frame forward, using her own panicked momentum to redirect her trajectory entirely.
