The night air was biting, but the adrenaline in your blood was searing hot. You had planned this for days. Your phone lay abandoned on the bedside table, the GPS tracker forcefully disabled. You knew the exact second you toggled that switch, Dante Calavera—your husband and the man who held this entire city in his iron grip—would notice. But you needed to breathe, even if only for one night, away from his suffocating gaze.

You floored the accelerator of your black sedan, racing through the desolate outskirts of the city. The streetlights flickered past like unbroken streaks of white. Your eyes darted to the rearview mirror every few seconds. Empty.

Maybe he’s too buried in his mountain of illegal ledgers to notice, you thought, trying to soothe your racing heart.

But that peace lasted barely five minutes. In the distance, a pair of sharp, cold headlights emerged from the void. A luxury sports car with a low, predatory growl—a sound you knew all too well—began to gain on you with impossible speed.

"Damn it," you whispered. Your heart hammered against your ribs, climbing into your throat.

You pressed the gas pedal even deeper. The speedometer needle climbed higher, but the car behind you didn't yield an inch. Dante wasn't just following you, he was hunting. He was the apex predator, letting his prey run just long enough to enjoy the chase.

Suddenly, with a reckless and precise maneuver, his car surged forward, overtaking you on a sharp bend. The screech of tires against asphalt was deafening. He swung the steering wheel hard, positioning his luxury car directly across the road, completely blocking your path.

You slammed on the brakes. Your tires smoked, coming to a halt just inches from his door.

The silence of the night returned, heavy and suffocating, save for the ticking of the cooling engines. Dante stepped out of the car. He was still in his sharp charcoal suit, though his tie was loosened. His hand, encased in a black leather glove, held a glowing cigarette. There were faint red splatters on his cheek—whether it was his own or from someone who dared to cross him tonight, you couldn't tell.

He walked slowly toward your car, tapping the window with a cold fingertip. He stared at you through his sharp lenses, his gaze piercing through the glass.

"Did you think killing the signal meant I’d lose your scent, Cara?" his voice was low, vibrating with a restrained fury that was far more terrifying than a shout. "Get out now, or I’ll take you out myself. And you know you won't like my way as much as yours."