The moment Emma Clare Winters tasted blood, she knew her life might never be the same again.
The supply closet door clicked shut behind her, sealing her inside a flickering-lit box that smelled of bleach and stale roses. She clutched the torn strap of her champagne gown, pressing the fabric over the dark stain blooming across it. Her ribs throbbed with every shallow breath. She’d held herself together long enough to escape the banquet hall—but now, the terror she’d been swallowing clawed its way up her throat.
“Just a minute,” she whispered to the shaking reflection staring back from the metal cabinet. “Just… one minute.”
Three months of savings in this dress. Four years of scraping and hustling her way up the Hawthorne event staff ladder. One promotion away from being able to pay her sister’s next medical bill.
She couldn’t lose everything because Tyler Delano didn’t understand the word no.
A hot tear cut down her cheek. She wiped it fast. She could still return to the gala if she fixed her face, if she pretended nothing happened, if she—
The door opened.
Dante Hawthorne filled the doorway like a threat made of bone and velvet. Broad-shouldered, immaculately dressed, expression unreadable—Boston’s whispered rumor of a mafia heir wrapped in a tuxedo.
Emma froze. Her heart stuttered painfully.
“Mr. Hawthorne—” she began, mortified.
“Who?” he asked quietly.
Just one word. But something inside it made her knees nearly buckle.
“It’s nothing,” she said quickly. “I slipped in the parking garage. I’m fine.”
But when he stepped inside and closed the door behind him with a soft click, the lie disintegrated.
He wasn’t looking at her—he was reading her. Lip split. Cheek swelling. Finger-shaped bruises blooming across her arm.
When he reached out and tilted her chin gently into the light, Emma flinched.
“That bruise is a fist,” he said, voice stripped of its elegant polish. “The split lip—a ring. You’re holding your side—cracked rib? Maybe two.” His eyes met hers, sharp, penetrating. “Who the hell touched you?”
She broke. Completely.
“Tyler Delano,” she whispered. “And three of his friends. He said if I told anyone, he’d ruin me.”
A stillness came over Dante—dangerous, absolute. He took out his phone.
“Marco. Supply closet. Bring the medical kit.”
Emma’s breath hitched. “Please… please don’t make this worse.”
Dante slid his tuxedo jacket around her shoulders like a vow.
“It’s already worse,” he murmured. “For them.”
The door opened as Marco entered.
And just as Emma exhaled—
Dante’s phone buzzed again.
He looked at the screen, his face turning to ice.
“Emma,” he said slowly, “did Tyler tell anyone else what he did to you tonight? Because someone just sent me a message… and it’s about you.”
Emma’s pulse hammered painfully as Dante stared at the glowing screen. The unread text pulsed like a warning between them.
“Dante… what happened?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer. He simply turned the phone so she could see.
A message from an unknown number:
“You should keep your staff on a tighter leash.
Your little event girl didn’t know her place.
Consider this a courtesy warning.”
Emma’s stomach dropped.
Tyler. It had to be Tyler. The arrogance, the threat, the implication—he was so sure no one would ever stand against him.
Dante’s jaw clenched. “He didn’t send this to intimidate you,” he said softly. “He sent it to intimidate me.”
Marco finished taping her side, his expression unreadable. “Two ribs cracked, but not displaced. She needs proper care.”
Dante nodded once. “I’ll take her.”
Emma held his jacket tighter around her shoulders. “You can’t get involved. You’ll get in trouble. Your family—”
“What my family does is none of your concern,” he said, stepping closer. “What happens to you is.”
Her throat caught. “I’m nobody.”
Dante leaned in until his eyes were level with hers. “You are the only person in this house tonight who didn’t want something from me. And someone laid their hands on you. That… makes you far from nobody.”
Before she could speak, his phone buzzed again.
Another unknown number.
This time: a video.
Dante’s expression darkened as he pressed play.
Tyler and two men stood in the gala’s west corridor—laughing, drinking, bragging. Tyler’s voice rose above the rest:
“Girl’s too stupid to know she should be grateful my friends noticed her. If she talks, she’s done. The Hawthornes don’t care about their help.”
Emma’s breath snagged. A tremor ran through her.
Then Tyler lifted his glass and smirked at the camera.
“At least she looked good crying.”
Dante exhaled—one slow, deadly breath.
Marco stiffened. “Boss?”
Dante’s voice dropped to something cold and quiet. “Call Angelo. Call Rafael. Wake the entire east team. No one touches a woman under my roof.”
Marco nodded once and disappeared.
Emma’s eyes widened. “Dante—wait. You said no one touches a woman under your roof. But I’m not—”
“You are now,” he cut in.
Before she could respond, heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway. Voices rose—security, the Hawthorne family’s own team, moving with purpose. Dante straightened, composure returned but laced with something lethal.
“Emma,” he said, “I need you to trust me for one night.”
“Trust you to do what?”
His expression softened—not with warmth, but with fury held back for her sake. “Trust me to make sure Tyler Delano never touches you, threatens you, or even says your name again.”
Emma swallowed hard. “What are you going to do?”
Dante opened the closet door, letting the hall’s golden light spill in.
“Part of that depends,” he said quietly, “on what you tell the police when they arrive.”
Emma froze. “The police? I can’t—Tyler said he’d destroy me.”
“And I said,” Dante murmured, brushing a thumb against her uninjured cheek, “that this is my thing now.”
But as he stepped out, Emma’s phone—thought lost—buzzed from her torn purse.
A message from an unknown number.
“You think running to Hawthorne will save you?
I know where you live.”
Emma’s breath left her body.
Dante turned back instantly.
“What happened?”
She lifted the phone with shaking fingers.
Dante read the message.
And for the first time that night—
Emma saw pure, unfiltered rage in his eyes.
“Emma,” he said softly, dangerously, “you need to pack a bag.
You’re not going home tonight.”
But where would Dante take her—
and what would sunrise look like when eight men vanished?
Dante Hawthorne brought Emma to his penthouse—not the glamorous one the tabloids gossiped about, but a quieter residence overlooking the Charles River. Warm lights. Clean lines. Not a single hint of danger except the four silent men stationed discreetly outside the building.
Emma sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket Marco insisted she take. Her ribs ached, her lip throbbed, but it was the fear in her chest that hurt the most.
Dante knelt in front of her, setting down a cup of tea. “Drink. Slowly.”
She obeyed. Her hands trembled too badly to refuse.
“You’re safe here,” he said.
“For how long?” she whispered. “Tyler… he’s not going to stop.”
Dante leaned back on his heels, studying her. “Emma, he can’t stop. He doesn’t have the ability anymore.”
Her brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”
Before Dante could answer, Marco stepped inside quietly. “It’s done.”
Emma stiffened. “What’s done?”
Dante stood, his expression unreadable. “Sit,” he said gently to her. “You need to hear this clearly.”
She did.
Dante took a breath—not of someone preparing a lie, but someone preparing the truth.
“Tyler Delano isn’t going to hurt you. He’s not going to ruin you. He’s not going to contact you again. Neither are his friends.”
Emma swallowed. “Why not?”
“Because,” Dante said simply, “things were taken care of.”
Marco added, “No one’s dead. But they won’t be troubling anyone for a very long time.”
Emma blinked. “…You scared them?”
“More than that,” Dante said. “We exposed them.”
At her confusion, he continued:
“Angelo sent the video of Tyler bragging—which Tyler stupidly recorded himself—to every political contact Marcus Delano cherishes. The police received a copy. So did two journalists Marcus is terrified of.”
Emma’s breath caught.
Dante wasn’t describing revenge.
He was describing justice—swift, surgical, undeniable.
“They found drugs in Tyler’s car,” Marco added. “Real ones. The kind that end political careers.”
Emma’s hand flew to her mouth. “But I never asked for this. I didn’t want—”
“You wanted safety,” Dante said firmly. “You wanted your life back. You wanted justice. And you deserved all three.”
Emma stared at him. “So… what happens now?”
Dante exhaled. The hard edges of him softened—not for the world, not for his family name, but for her.
“Now,” he said, “Marcus Delano is publicly distancing himself from his nephew. Tyler’s being arraigned this morning. He’s not getting bail.”
Emotion crashed over her—shock, relief, disbelief, and something else she didn’t want to name.
“And you,” Dante continued, “are not going back to that gala. You’re not facing anyone until you’re ready.”
Emma shook her head. “I can’t afford to disappear. I need my job. My sister—”
“You’re not losing your job.” Dante sat beside her, lowering his voice. “The Hawthorne family is promoting you. Immediately.”
Her breath hitched. “W-what?”
“You’ll run all charity events going forward. Higher salary. Full medical coverage—for you and your sister.”
Emma’s eyes filled. “Why would you—why would they—”
“Because you earned it,” Dante said softly. “And because I’m done watching people underestimate you.”
Silence filled the room—warm, fragile, transforming.
Emma set down the tea. “Dante… you didn’t have to do any of this.”
“No,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek with a gentleness that didn’t match his reputation. “I wanted to.”
Her heartbeat stuttered.
Dante hesitated, then added quietly, “If you ever decide you want more protection—more than this job, this night, this moment—I’m here. Not as Hawthorne. Not as anything dangerous. Just as a man who cares what happens to you.”
Emma inhaled shakily. “I don’t know what happens next.”
He smiled—small, real.
“We get breakfast. And then we start figuring it out together.”
Outside, the sun broke over the river.
The night of violence was over.
The day of something new—something strong, safe, and unexpected—had begun.
And for the first time in years, Emma Clare Winters felt like her future belonged to her again.
A future Dante Hawthorne intended to protect.
