Chapter 2 - A Visit From the Past
Caroline ignored Dante and walked past him toward the front window, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Through the frosted lettering of Jones Custom Tailoring — Fine Bespoke Garments Since 1974, she could see the distorted silhouette of a tall man shaking the brass handle.
"Caroline! Open up, I know you’re in there!"
It wasn't Greg.
It was Julian.
Caroline froze, her hand hovering over the deadbolt. Julian Vance—her father’s former partner, the man who had systematically looted the shop's accounts a week before her grandfather's funeral before disappearing into the western suburbs—hadn't darkened her doorway in three years.
Behind her, she heard the soft, deliberate scuff of Dante’s shoes on the hardwood.
"Who is it?" Dante asked, his voice flat.
"Nobody," Caroline lied, her fingers curling into her palm.
"He’s shouting your name," Dante noted, stepping up right behind her. She could feel the heat radiating off his chest, smell the faint scent of rain and expensive cedarwood. "That doesn't sound like 'nobody.' That sounds like a man who thinks he’s owed something."
Before Caroline could stop him, Dante reached past her, his long fingers snapping the deadbolt open with a heavy clack. He pulled the door wide.
Julian stumbled forward into the shop, catching himself against the wooden counter. He looked older than he had three years ago—his graying hair uncombed, his expensive trench coat stained at the hem with mud, his eyes wide and bloodshot.
"Caroline, you’ve got to help me—" Julian started, then stopped dead as he looked up and saw Dante Baker standing in the shadows.
Julian’s breath caught in his throat. Color drained entirely from his face, leaving him a sickly, pasty gray. He didn't just recognize Dante; men in Julian’s line of shady real estate development and back-alley zoning bribes knew Dante Baker the way sailors knew a hurricane warning.
"Mr... Mr. Baker," Julian stammered, taking a panicked step backward. "I didn't... I didn't know you were conducting business here. I'll—I can come back."
"You came looking for Caroline," Dante said softly, stepping out into the faint pool of light from the streetlamp. "That makes you my business."
"No, no, it's personal. Family business," Julian lied frantically, his eyes darting back to Caroline. "Caroline, honey, your grandfather would have wanted you to listen. It’s about the property lease. The whole block—they’re foreclosing. They’re coming for the shop."
Caroline felt the floor tilt beneath her feet. She grabbed the edge of the cutting table to steady herself. "What are you talking about? The lease is paid through next year."
"Not anymore," Julian said, sweating profusely now as Dante slowly closed the distance between them. "The debt your old man left—it wasn't just to local banks, Caroline. It was bundled. Sold off to a holding company. And that holding company just assigned the note to... to..." Julian’s voice died in his throat as he looked sideways at Dante.
Dante didn't blink. He stood motionless, his face an unreadable mask of cold granite.
Caroline looked from Julian to Dante, a sudden, terrible clarity washing over her.
"You bought the debt," Caroline said, her voice dropping to a whisper.
Dante didn't answer right away. He slid his hands into his trouser pockets, looking down at Julian like an entomologist inspecting an uninteresting beetle.
"Your grandfather was a proud man," Dante said quietly, his eyes still fixed on Julian. "He borrowed against the building to pay off medical bills he was too proud to ask for help with. When he died, the paper was floating in the dirt."
"You bought it," Caroline repeated, stepping between Dante and Julian. Her voice shook with a dangerous mix of fury and betrayal. "You bought the mortgage on my shop before I even met you."
Dante looked down at her then. The raw intensity in his gaze made her breath hitch.
"I don't buy things I can't protect, Caroline," Dante said. "And Julian here was about to sell the lot to a development firm that would have bulldozed this block by Friday."
Julian let out a pathetic whimpering sound. "I had no choice! They offered me a cut—"
"Shut up, Julian," Dante said without raising his voice.
Julian snapped his mouth shut, trembling.
Caroline looked at the man she had measured three days ago. The man who had broken a measuring tape because she didn't have a boyfriend. The man who owned the very floorboards beneath her feet.
"Get out," Caroline whispered to Julian.
"What?" Julian blinked, terrified.
"I said get out of my shop before I let him finish what he's thinking about."
Julian didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled backward through the door, tripping over the threshold before righting himself and sprinting down the rain-slick pavement into the dark.
The heavy glass door swung shut, clicking into place.
The shop fell silent again, save for the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.
Caroline turned to Dante, her eyes blazing. "You manipulated this whole thing. You set up the lease, you watched me struggle, you walked in here pretending to be a client—"
"I needed a suit," Dante interrupted calmly. "And I wanted to see if the rumors about old Frank Jones’s granddaughter were true."
"What rumors?"
"That she was the only tailor left in the city with enough spine to stand up to a room full of men who should have scared her half to death." Dante took a step closer, closing the space between them until she could feel the heat radiating off him. "And you didn't disappoint. But you're wrong about one thing, Caroline."
"What?"
"I didn't buy the debt to trap you." Dante reached out, his large, scarred hand gently catching a stray lock of dark hair that had fallen across her forehead, tucking it behind her ear with surprising tenderness. "I bought it to make sure nobody else could ever take away the only thing you love."
Caroline’s breath caught. Before she could pull away, Dante’s phone buzzed sharply in his pocket.
He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and his entire demeanor shifted from intense personal focus to lethal, icy professionalism.
"What is it?" Caroline asked, her voice tight.
Dante slipped the phone away and grabbed his charcoal overcoat from the chair.
May you like
"It seems," Dante said, pulling his coat on over his shoulders, "that Julian didn't run away to the suburbs tonight. He went straight to the people who paid him off. And they’re very interested in who owns your mortgage."
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