Chapter 8 - THE TRAP IS SET
Dante’s shoulder was stitched by a mob doctor in the kitchen of the safe house. While he recovered, Alara refused to leave his side. The dynamic between them had shifted irrevocably. She was no longer a terrified bride; she was a partner in a war zone.
“We can’t keep running,” Alara said, staring at the map of Chicago spread across the dining table. “Caruso has too many men. But he has a weakness.”
Dante looked up, gritting his teeth against the pain. “Enlighten me.”
“His art collection,” Alara said, her eyes sharp. “When I was forced to attend his dinners with my father, he bragged about it. He uses a private gallery in River North to launder his cash. The vault is underneath. All his liquid assets, his blackmail files on the politicians—it’s all there. He keeps it guarded, but tomorrow night is his annual charity gala at his main estate.”
Dante smiled slowly, a predator finding the scent of blood. “He’ll take his best men to guard the estate.”
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“Leaving the gallery vulnerable,” she confirmed. “If you take his money and his leverage, the politicians will abandon him. His men won't fight for a broke boss.”
“You are brilliant, mia regina (my queen),” Dante murmured, pulling her by the waist into his lap. He kissed the hollow of her throat—right where the fingerprint bruises had finally faded away. “We don’t just take the vault. We take the vault, and then I go to his estate and end this.”
