Chapter 2 - Ten Minutes

Dante had learned patience the way other men learned to kill early, and out of necessity. Eleven months of watching Elena Voss live a life she didn't know was already his, had taught him more about patience than anything else in thirty-four years.

He stood in the foyer with his hands in his pockets, listening to the muffled sound of drawers opening upstairs, fabric being shoved into a bag, footsteps pacing in short, furious lines.

She was buying herself time to think, which meant she was terrified, yet smart. He liked that about her already, right from the first week he'd had eyes on her, the way she never made a decision without weighing every angle first, even when the decision didn't matter.

This one mattered, he wondered if she understood how much yet.

"Sir." Marco appeared at his shoulder, voice low enough that Voss, still slumped against the banister trying to remember how to breathe, wouldn't hear. "Car's ready. You want me to go up and hurry her along?"

"No." Dante didn't look away from the staircase. "She comes down on her own."

"And if she doesn't come down at all?"

Dante almost smiled, and replied "She will."

He'd built his entire life on reading people before they finished reading themselves, and Elena Voss was not the kind of woman who hid in a bathroom hoping a problem would disappear if she waited long enough.

She was that kind of woman who walked toward the thing that frightened her, chin up, spine straight, because running gave people power over you and she'd rather choose her own fear than have it chosen for her.

It was, he thought, going to make the next several months very interesting.

He let his eyes drift to her father, still gray-faced against the banister. Voss was not a stupid man because desperate men rarely were, but he'd made the same mistake every man in his position made: he'd assumed Dante's patience was mercy.

"You should have told her," Dante said, without heat. "About the loan, and about what happens when men like me stop being patient."

"She's twenty-six years old." Voss's voice cracked laced with deep emotion. "She has nothing to do with what I owe you."

"She has everything to do with it. You built your business on my money and let it rot for eleven months while you gambled on buying more time you didn't have."

Dante finally turned to look at him fully, and whatever Voss saw on his face made him flinch back half a step. "I could have taken your house tonight. Your accounts and every asset with your name on it, and left you with nothing but the shirt on your back and the shame of losing everything you built."

"Then take it," Voss said, desperate now. "Take all of it. Just leave her out of ...."

"I don't want your money, Voss." Dante's voice dropped, quiet in a way that was somehow louder than shouting. "I want what you were never going to give me willingly, and now I don't have to ask."

Upstairs, a door opened and both men turned. Elena appeared at the top of the staircase with a single bag over her shoulder, dressed with jeans, a plain black sweater, hair pulled back like she'd decided somewhere between the shower and this moment that she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of watching her come undone.

Her chin was lifted exactly the way he'd expected plus her hands gripping the strap of her bag, were not quite steady. He noticed both things and filed both away.

She descended the stairs slowly, deliberately, like every step was a choice she was making on purpose instead of one she was being forced into, and something in Dante's chest ,a feeling that he hadn't given permission to move shifted at the sight of her walking toward him instead of away.

"Ten minutes," she said, stopping two steps above him, close enough that he had to tilt his head back slightly to hold her eyes.

"You said ten minutes, and i made it in eight."

"I noticed."

"I want it in writing." Her voice didn't shake, though he could see the effort it cost her to keep it that way. "Whatever this is, whatever you're calling it. I want the terms in writing, and I want my father's debt cleared the moment I walk out that door with you. Not eventually or when it's convenient for you. I want it all cleared it tonight."

Behind her, Voss made a small, broken sound.Dante studied her for a long moment, close enough now to see the fine tremor in her jaw, the pulse jumping fast at her throat, the way she held herself like a woman standing at the edge of something and refusing to look down.

She wasn't asking him for mercy, rather she was negotiating, in the middle of the worst night of her life, with a man who could end her father's world with a phone call.

He felt something he hadn't felt in longer than he could remember. Not desire, but something sharper, more dangerous. You could it admiration.

"Done," he said. "The debt clears tonight. In writing, if that's what you need."

"It is."

"Then get in the car, Elena."

She held his gaze a moment longer, like she was testing whether he'd flinch first, whether the man who'd walked into her house and rearranged her entire life would blink under the weight of her stare the way everyone else clearly did, but he didn't.

Something in her expression cracked, just slightly it was not fear this time, rather a thing closer to recognition, like she was starting to understand exactly what kind of man she'd just agreed to leave with.

She walked past him without another word, out the front door and into the cold, and Dante allowed himself one last look at Voss pale, defeated, finally understanding what eleven months of patience had actually cost him before he followed her out.

In the car, Elena sat rigid against the door, as far from him as the seat allowed, staring straight ahead like the passing city lights were the only thing keeping her upright.

"You're not what I expected," she said quietly, not looking at him.

"No?"

"I expected a monster." Her voice was barely audible over the engine. "You're worse and also too patient."

Dante watched her profile in the dark, the tight line of her jaw, the white-knuckled grip on her bag, the way she refused to let a single tear fall even now and felt the leash on his own restraint pull tighter than it had in eleven months of waiting.

"Get used to it," he said softly. "You have no idea how patient I can be."

Elena didn't answer, but he saw her hands tighten on the bag in her lap, saw the shiver that had nothing to do with the cold and he knew, with the same certainty that had carried him through eleven months of watching and waiting, that she'd felt it too.

Whatever this was between them, it had already started and neither of them was walking away from it now.