“What deal?”

Kenwood laughs, pushing up from the deep sofa. I take a step back, now that he’s standing.

But Kenwood isn’t walking toward me. He goes over to the bar, next to a massive painting of Alexander the Great on horseback, and starts mixing himself a drink.

“Do you want anything?” he asks me.

“No.”

He pours bourbon over ice and swirls it around before taking a drink. Millie skips over to him. He dips his index finger in the liquor, then holds it out to her. She sucks the alcohol off his finger, looking up at him the whole time, then she licks her lips.

Kenwood fixes me with his cool stare again.

“Your father and I made a deal. I gave him the names of three of my suppliers, and a couple of ‘friends’ that I didn’t mind throwing under the bus. In return, the video his little foundation made at one of my parties—which would have been thrown the fuck out in court anyway, by the way—went missing. Saved me a scandal, at the low price of a couple disposable degenerates. In fact,” Kenwood laughs, “getting Phil Bernucci arrested was doing me a favor. That fucker tried to poach the movie rights to The Hangman’s Game, which I owned for the next eight years, and he knew it. Watching him lose his beach house in Malibu to lawyer fees was fucking beautiful.”

I shake my head in disbelief.

“I don’t believe you.”

My father would never destroy evidence of a crime like that. He built the Freedom Foundation to stop trafficking. To stop people like Kenwood.

“I don’t care what you believe, you silly bitch,” Kenwood snaps, throwing the rest of his drink down his throat.

At that moment, a man pushes open the painting of Alexander the Great and steps into the room. It’s one of Kenwood’s guards.

Kenwood sets down his glass, next to a red button set in the smooth wooden surface of the bar. A call button. Kenwood pressed it while he was making his drink.

“Grab her,” Kenwood says carelessly.

I try to turn and run, but the burly security guard is much faster than me, especially when I’m hobbled by a tight dress and high heels. He seizes my arms, pinning them behind my back. I scream when he grabs me, and the guard clamps his huge hand down over my mouth. I keep screaming, squirming and biting at his hand, but he’s much stronger than me.

“Hold still or I’ll break your fuckin’ arm,” he growls, twisting my arm up behind my back. Pain shoots up from my elbow to my shoulder. I stop squirming.

“That’s better,” Kenwood says. Jerking his head at Millie, he says, “Tell the guards to search the rest of the house. Find whoever she came with.”

Millie pouts. “I want to stay and watch.”

“Get going,” Kenwood says coldly.

Turning back around, he looks me up and down.

“Strip her,” he says to the guard.

I don’t know if he simply intends to search me, or something worse. The guard grabs the front of my dress and yanks it down, ripping the shoulder strap. As soon as his hand isn’t covering my mouth anymore, I scream as loud as I can, “DANTE!”

I hear a roar like a bear. Dante comes bursting through the Andy Warhol print on the far wall. He tears the canvas like it’s not even there, barreling through into the room beyond.

Kenwood shrieks with rage, his fingernails digging into his cheeks.

“My Mao!” he cries.

Dante takes one look at me, arms still pinned behind my back, dress torn so that one strap is dangling down, and my left breast is bare. His face darkens with pure, murderous rage.

He charges at the guard. The guy lets go of me, trying to get his fists up, but he might as well be trying to box a grizzly. Dante’s massive fist comes crashing down on his jaw, and then his other fist goes swinging up like a hammer. He hits the guard again and again, driving him back. Each of his blows lands with a horrible thud. When he hits the guard in the mouth, blood spatters sideways, landing wetly on my arm and Kenwood’s shoe.

Dante hits the guard twice more, then picks him up and throws him. The guard is a big man, but Dante flings him across the room like a discus. He crashes against the wall, then goes slumping down on the sofa, groaning and only half-conscious.

Kenwood looks terrified. He’s madly punching the call button set into the bar, but it’s too late. In three steps, Dante’s picked him up by the throat, lifting his feet off the floor. Dante’s thick fingers sink into Kenwood’s throat. Kenwood’s face turns red and then almost purple, his eyes bulging and spit flying from his lips as he tries to form words. He claws at Dante’s hand and arm, but they might as well be made of stone for all Dante seems to feel it. Kenwood’s feet kick helplessly in the air.

I think Dante’s just releasing his aggression, but as Kenwood’s eyes start to roll back, I realize Dante might actually kill him.

“Dante, stop!” I cry. “He didn’t do anything to me!”

It’s like he can’t even hear me. Kenwood is going limp now, as Dante’s fingers sink deeper and deeper into his throat. I think he’s going to break the man’s neck.

“Dante!” I shriek. “STOP!”

My voice cuts through his rage. He turns to look at me, and maybe the terror on my face snaps him the rest of the way out of it. He lets go of Kenwood, who goes crashing down to the floor, unable to catch himself. He’s still alive, though—I can hear his rasping breaths.

“He hit his panic button,” I tell Dante. “We’ve got to get out of here before the rest of his goons show up. Or the cops.”

Dante still looks dazed, like his anger put him in an entirely different state. One that he can’t come back from so easily.

But he does hear me. He grabs my hand and says, “Come on.”

The feeling of his warm fingers enclosing mine sends a jolt of electricity up my arm. I let Dante pull me along, back through the painting he destroyed, back through the empty room, and then down the hallway.

I hear feet thudding up the staircase—two or three men at least. Dante yanks me into the nearest doorway, pressing me against the wall with his bulk to keep me safe and out of sight. We’re closer now than we were when we danced. My face is pressed against his huge chest, and his arms pin me against the wall. His body is hotter than a furnace, still inflamed by his anger at Kenwood. I can feel his heart thundering away by my cheek. His chest rises rapidly with each breath.

As we wait for the footsteps to go by, I look up at Dante’s face.

For once, he’s looking back down at me. His eyes are black and gleaming like wet stone. His expression is ferocious.

I open my mouth to say something. Instead his lips come slamming down on mine. He crushes me in his arms, attacking me with his mouth. He kisses me like he’s been waiting nine years to do it.

His stubble is rough. It scrapes my face. But his mouth . . . oh my god, he tastes so good. I’ve been starving for that taste. His scent makes me dizzy and weak.

I cling to him. I melt into him. I whimper from how badly I want him.

And then he stops.

“We better get out of here,” he growls.

I completely forgot we were in the middle of escaping.

Dante pulls me out in the hallway. He pauses to listen, then, hearing nothing but the pounding music from below, we sprint down the dark hall, all the way to the stairs, then down to the main level. Dante shoves through the press of guests—the party is more packed than ever now. He steals the Ferrari’s keys from the valet stand, and soon we’re roaring back toward the gates.