Chapter 3 - Dawn and Demands
The first pale gray light of morning crept through the cracked window blinds, painting long, dusty stripes across the cramped apartment.
Mave sat cross-legged on the floor with her back against the sofa, a cold cup of coffee in her hand, staring across the room. Dante sat on the pull-out couch, the makeshift stitches pulled taut across his abdomen, wrapped securely in layers of clean gauze she’d scavenged from an old first-aid kit.
He was awake, watching her with that unblinking, predatory stare.
Bruno was curled up across Dante's feet, snoring softly, completely at home in the center of the chaos.
"You're not calling the police," Dante stated. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact backed by thirty years of absolute power.
"And why would I do that?" Mave retorted, taking a slow sip of the bitter coffee. "Tell the boys in blue that I rescued a high-ranking syndicate boss from an execution squad and dragged him back to my studio apartment? I'm sure the local precinct would throw me a parade, right before they locked me up for harboring a fugitive and aiding a homicide."
Dante tilted his head. "Smart girl. Most people panic. You calculate."
"Survival math," Mave said, setting the mug down with a sharp clink. "It's the only subject they teach in the neighborhood I grew up in. Now, Mr. Thorne, here is the calculus of our current situation: your friends or your enemies—frankly, at this point, I don't know the difference—saw my Civic in that alley. Which means it's only a matter of time before they trace my license plate."
Dante’s gray eyes narrowed. "They won't find you through the car. The plates registered to this address are clean, but your car is flagged in municipal databases for unpaid parking tickets. If they run the plates through city transit cams, they'll be here by noon."
Mave groaned, dropping her head back against the sofa cushion. "Great. Just great. I'm going to lose my job, my apartment, and my car, all because I wanted to throw out two bags of rotting cherry pie boxes."
"Pack a bag," Dante said, his voice dropping into an authoritative register that brooked no argument.
Mave blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You're coming with me," Dante said, shifting his weight and swinging his legs over the edge of the couch. Despite the grimace of pain that crossed his features, he stood up, towering over the small room. "You saved my life, and you saved Bruno. In my world, that creates a debt that cannot be ignored. Stay here, and you're a liability. Come with me, and you're under my protection."
May you like
Mave stared at him, incredulous. "Your protection? You were tied to a gas pipe with zip ties and bleeding out behind a greasy diner! Your protection sounds like a great way to get a second hole punched in my chest."
Before Dante could answer, a loud, heavy knock rattled the wooden frame of Mave’s apartment door.
