Chapter 6 - A Dance with the Devil
The betrayal cut through the Morelli syndicate like a poisoned blade. Dante had been Josiah’s right-hand man for nearly a decade—a man who knew every safehouse, every offshore account, every blind spot in the estate's perimeter.
By noon the next day, the estate was crawling with thirty elite mercenaries handpicked from Josiah’s most loyal personal guard. The shattered windows were being replaced with bullet-resistant polycarbonate, and the scent of ozone and fresh paint fought against the lingering smell of cordite.
In the private medical wing of the compound, Josiah insisted on stitching Willow’s arm himself. He refused to let the syndicate doctor touch her, his possessive nature flaring with quiet, dark intensity.
Willow sat on the edge of the examination table, biting her lower lip as Josiah carefully pulled the black surgical thread through her skin. His touch was clinical yet intensely intimate. Every time his warm fingers brushed against her forearm, a shiver traveled straight to her core.
"You should have let the doctor do this," Willow said, trying to distract herself from the intoxicating proximity of his broad chest. "You look like you haven't slept in forty-eight hours."
"I don't trust anyone near you," Josiah replied quietly, not looking up. "Not anymore."
"You trusted Dante."
Josiah’s hands paused for a fraction of a second before he smoothly tied off the final knot. He snipped the thread, swabbed the wound with antiseptic, and gently wrapped a fresh gauze bandage around her arm.
"Dante wanted power," Josiah said, his voice hardening. "Moretti offered him half my territory in exchange for Mia. Salvatore believes that if he kills my bloodline, my syndicate will fracture and collapse." He stepped between Willow’s knees, his towering frame casting a long shadow over her, his dark eyes locking onto hers with hypnotic gravity. "He didn't account for you."
Willow swallowed hard. "I'm just a waitress, Josiah."
Josiah reached out, his calloused fingertips lightly tracing the curve of her jawline, tilting her face up toward his. "You are the woman who bled for my daughter. You are the woman who stood in front of an assassin's blade to protect me." His thumb brushed across her bottom lip, his gaze dropping to her mouth with naked hunger. "There is nothing 'just' about you, Willow Hayes."
Willow’s heart hammered violently against her ribs. The air between them turned thick, charged with an undeniable, dangerous electricity. She knew what this man was—a ruthless king of the underworld whose hands were stained with blood. Yet standing here, looking into the raw vulnerability he showed only to her, she felt safer than she had in her entire life.
Before Josiah could close the inches between their lips, a soft knock sounded at the door.
Mia poked her head inside, holding a small silver tray with two cups of hot chocolate. She wore a clean pink sweater and had brushed her own hair—a small miracle that made Josiah’s chest tighten with pride.
"I made hot chocolate," Mia announced shyly, her eyes darting between Willow and her father. "Well, Mrs. Gable made it, but I carried the tray without spilling a single drop."
Willow smiled, gently easing back from Josiah, though the mob boss’s hand lingered on her shoulder for a heartbeat longer than necessary. "Bring it here, little chef. You're getting better at carrying trays than I am."
Mia beamed, climbing onto the examination table beside Willow, handing her a mug. "Daddy, can Willow stay forever? Please? She promised she'd teach me how to bake cookies like her mom used to."
Josiah looked at Willow, a slow, breathtaking smile curving his handsome face. "That depends on Willow, sweetheart. But I have a feeling she belongs here now."
Later that evening, after Mia had finally drifted off to sleep in Willow’s newly assigned bedroom suite, Willow walked down to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water. The grand house was quiet, bathed in the silver glow of the moonlight filtering through the skylights.
As she passed the secondary study near the wine cellar, a low murmur of voices caught her attention.
The door was cracked an inch.
Willow paused, instinctively stepping into the shadows.
Inside, one of Josiah’s senior captains, a man named Marco, was speaking into a burner phone in hushed, urgent tones.
"He doesn't suspect a thing," Marco whispered, his voice tense. "He thinks Dante acted alone. Dante was just the distraction to draw his attention to the harbor. Tomorrow night, during the territory transfer at the old rail yard, Moretti’s strike team hits the estate from the river trail. The girl and the waitress will be completely unprotected."
Willow felt the ice flood her veins. Dante hadn't just betrayed Josiah—the rot inside the syndicate ran far deeper.
She turned to sprint back toward Josiah’s study, but her shoe clicked against the parquet floor.
May you like
Inside the study, the whisper instantly cut off.
Willow spun on her heel and ran, but heavy footsteps exploded behind her. A thick, leather-gloved hand clamped over her mouth, dragging her backward into the suffocating darkness of the cellar stairs.
