Chapter 5 - The Terminal Meeting
The private hangar at Boeing Field smelled of aviation fuel, cold concrete, and rain. A solitary Gulfstream jet sat bathed in the harsh white glare of overhead floodlights, its turbines whining down to a low, rhythmic sigh.
Leo cut the engine of the sedan fifty yards away from the ramp. Through the rain-streaked windshield, I could see a tall figure standing at the base of the mobile staircase. He wore a dark wool overcoat, his collar turned up against the wind, his dark hair damp and clinging to his forehead.
Dante Valerio.
He didn't look like a king in exile, nor did he look like the broken tyrant I had imagined during my lonely nights in Oregon. He looked sharper, leaner, and utterly dangerous—a man who had just dismantled an empire and was ready to rebuild it from the ashes.
"He's waiting," Marcus said quietly, opening his door.
I didn't move for a long moment. My hand rested on the zipper of my laptop bag, my fingers trembling slightly. Every instinct I possessed told me to open the opposite door, run out into the dark hangars, and disappear into the Pacific Northwest timber.
You mean nothing to me.
The words echoed in my head, cold and absolute. But they were a lie. Marcus had proved it, and the presence of this jet proved it.
I pushed the door open and stepped out into the freezing rain. The wind whipped my hair across my face, but I kept my eyes locked on him as I walked across the tarmac. The distance between the car and the stairs felt like miles.
Dante didn't move to meet me. He stood motionless at the foot of the metal steps, watching me approach with those dark, unreadable eyes. As I finally stopped a few feet away from him, the scent cut through the smell of fuel—sandalwood and rain. Exactly as I remembered.
"You look thin, Dana," he said. His voice was low, stripped of all the theatrical cruelty he had used in his study three weeks ago, carrying only a raw, gravelly exhaustion.
"You look like you just blew up a city," I answered, my voice steady, though my hands were clenched into fists inside my pockets.
A faint, bitter smile touched the corner of his mouth. "Just the parts that were rotten."
He stepped closer, closing the space between us until I could feel the heat radiating off his coat. He raised one hand—slowly, giving me every opportunity to step back—and dragged his knuckles gently across my cheek, exactly the way he had before he broke my heart.
"I told you to stay in Oregon, Dana," he murmured, his thumb brushing just beneath my eye. "It was supposed to be far enough away from the fire."
"I don't need you to protect me, Dante," I said, my gaze locking onto his without flinching. "And I certainly don't need your charity real estate."
His hand stopped. His dark eyes flared with a sudden, intense heat that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the truth he had tried so hard to bury.
May you like
"It wasn't charity," Dante whispered, leaning down so his lips were dangerously close to my ear. "It was an investment in the only person in this city I couldn't afford to lose."
Before I could answer, the sharp, deafening crack of a high-powered rifle shot shattered the quiet of the hangar, pinging violently off the aluminum hull of the private jet just inches above our heads.
