Page 74 of Ivory Crown

“No,” he said. “You’re just way in over your head.”

And just like that, he was walking away.

Chapter Forty-Three: Jade

Dinner was finished…and I hadn’t taken my out.

The city was a dark canvas, the stars hidden by the glow of a thousand lives churning within its depths. We were just two silhouettes against the vast tapestry of New York’s nightlife as Dante’s car, a sleek predator of steel and horsepower, slid into the driveway with the grace of a whisper. The engine cut off, leaving us cocooned in the kind of silence that begged for words I couldn’t find.

“Jade,” Dante said, his voice a soft rumble next to me, “talk to me.”

I glanced at him, caught in the half-light that turned his features both soft and sharp at once. His suit, tailored to perfection, whispered power; my blue dress felt like a shield against the night. “Just thinking,” I murmured, my fingers trailing down the fabric, pretending to chase away wrinkles that weren’t there.

“About?” His question hung between us, inviting yet cautious. Dante Moretti was a man who knew the weight of words left unspoken.

“Everything.” My reply was a drop in the stillness, ripples reaching out to touch the edges of truths we danced around every day.

Everything meant the shadow of his family, the unyielding grip it had on us. It meant the life I tried to build, one breakthrough at a time, in a lab that might as well be another world. It meant the fear of what lay ahead tangled up with the hope that maybe, just maybe, we could carve out something real amidst the chaos.

It meant the fact that I’d had an out and I hadn’t fucking taken it. That I could’ve walked away…with police protection…and instead I was here with him, talking as if we were a regular couple.

“Jade,” he said again, his hand reaching out to capture mine. His fingers were warm, their strength reassuring even as they called out to the pulse that raced beneath my skin. In his touch, I found an anchor. He might be my captor–but he was only trying to protect me.

I was pretty sure he wasn’t lying about that.

“Let’s go inside,” he suggested, a command wrapped in velvet concern. And as we stepped from the cocoon of his car into the embrace of the night, I followed, allowing myself this moment of respite in his presence before reality came crashing back in waves.

“Is it too late to call your parents?” A few minutes later, Dante’s voice sliced through the silence of the penthouse living room, as if to cut away the web of tension that had settled between us.

I glanced at my new phone, the screen’s blue light casting an otherworldly glow on my skin. “No, they’re night owls. It should be okay. Can I do this in the bedroom?”

“No,” he said. “I won’t talk, but go ahead. Stay here. I want to hear.”

My fingers hesitated over the screen before finally pressing the call button, the sound filling the room with its persistent beep. As it rang, I felt Dante move closer, a silent sentinel whose very presence was both a danger and a comfort.

“Jade?” My mother’s voice came through, tinged with surprise and sleep.

“Hey, Mom,” I replied, mustering a cheerfulness I didn’t quite feel. “Sorry for calling so late.”

“No, no, it’s okay, dear. Is everything all right?” she asked. “I haven’t heard from you in so long…I was so worried about you.”

“Sorry, Mom. Everything’s fine,” I lied smoothly, instinctively glancing at Dante. His expression was unreadable, but there was a tightness around his eyes that spoke volumes. “You know how it is. I got really lost in my research and forgot to look up.”

My mom considered that for a second. “But are you okay?”

“Yes,” I said, almost instinctively. “Where’s Dad?”

“Oh, he’s right…oh, he was here a second ago. One second, sweetie—Richard!”

And just like that, the conversation shifted. I found myself in the familiar territory of talking about the latest scientific breakthroughs and debating views with my father. For those precious minutes, I felt like Jade Bentley, the neuroscientist, not Jade Bentley, the unwitting mafia princess.

“Actually, I have a reason for calling,” I interjected, seizing a lull in the conversation. “I was wondering...could you both come to New York?”

“Oh,” my mom said. “Yes! Of course. For Christmas, maybe?”

“No, I mean sooner than that,” I said. “Like in a week or two.”

There was a pause on the other end—a hesitation that seemed to stretch into eternity. Then my father’s voice, warm yet cautious, broke the silence. “Sweetheart, isn’t it a bit sudden?”

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