The Abduction in the Rain

The cold October rain was drumming a furious, relentless beat against the granite steps of Lincoln Center when Sofia Laurent finally packed her cello case.

It was past eleven on a Tuesday night. Her fingers were stiff, calloused from five hours of grueling rehearsal for her upcoming Carnegie Hall debut. She zipped the reinforced black fiberglass case over her antique Montagnana cello, slinging the padded backpack straps over her shoulders, and pushed through the heavy glass doors into the biting Manhattan air.

The plaza was deserted, glistening black under the glow of streetlamps. Sofia pulled her wool coat tight around her collar, shivering as the wind whipped off the Hudson River. She pulled out her phone to hail an Uber.

Before she could unlock the screen, a low, ominous rumble vibrated through the pavement.

Two matte-black Cadillac Escalades with heavily tinted windows glided silently up to the curb, cutting off her path to Columbus Avenue.

Sofia’s heart stuttered in her chest. She took a step back, her hand dropping to the brass pepper spray canister on her keychain. "Hey! Move your car!"

The rear passenger door of the lead Escalade clicked open.

A man stepped out into the pouring rain.

He didn't rush. He didn't flinch as the downpour soaked into the shoulders of his bespoke charcoal cashmere overcoat. He was tall—easily six-foot-two—with broad, athletic shoulders and a lean, powerful frame that carried an aura of absolute, terrifying authority.

His dark hair was cut sharp, wet strands falling over a forehead etched with cold aristocratic bone structure. His jawline was sharp as an obsidian blade, dusted with dark evening shadow, and a faint, thin scar ran just beneath his right eye.

But it was his eyes that locked Sofia to the concrete.

They were silver-hazel. Cold, predatory, and burning with an unholy, magnetic intensity that seemed to swallow all the light in the courtyard.

Dante DeLuca.

Sofia felt the blood drain from her face until she was lightheaded. She knew that face. She had seen his surveillance photographs spread across her father’s dining room table for the past six months. He was the head of the DeLuca syndicate—the man the Department of Justice called the Shadow of Manhattan, the untouchable titan who controlled every shipping dock, union, and private bank from Brooklyn to Jersey City.

"Sofia Laurent," Dante said. His voice was a deep, gravelly baritone that rolled through the rain like distant thunder, smooth as twenty-year-old whiskey and lethal as poison.

Sofia’s fingers gripped her pepper spray, her pulse pounding in her ears like a sledgehammer. "Stay back! If you take one more step, I will scream! The security guards are inside!"

Dante tilted his head, a slow, dangerous smirk curving the corner of his sculpted lips. "The security guards took fifty thousand dollars in cash thirty minutes ago, Sofia. The cameras in this plaza have been looping static since ten o'clock."

He took two slow, measured strides toward her. The scent of rain, aged Italian leather, and smoky cedarwood enveloped her senses.

Sofia didn't hesitate. She whipped the pepper spray up and fired directly at his face.

Dante didn't even blink. With blinding, supernatural speed, his large, gloved hand shot forward, knocking the canister from her grip before clamping firmly around her wrist.

Sofia gasped, attempting to pull away, but his grip was forged iron. With his other hand, he reached behind her, swiftly unbuckling the cello case from her shoulders, passing the multimillion-dollar instrument to a waiting soldier behind him with effortless care.

"Put the cello in the trunk gently," Dante commanded his man, his silver-hazel eyes never leaving Sofia’s trembling face. "If it has a single scratch on it, I will break your fingers."

"Let me go!" Sofia snarled, throwing a hard right hook toward his jaw with all her strength.

Dante caught her fist mid-air, his palm swallowing her small hand. In one fluid, effortless motion, he spun her around, pulling her back flush against his massive, muscular chest. His arm wrapped around her waist like a steel band, trapping her against his heat.

"You have your father's temper," Dante murmured against her ear, his hot breath sending a violent, shocking shiver down her spine. "Good. I was worried you would be boring."

"My father is the Federal Prosecutor for the Southern District of New York!" Sofia shouted, struggling frantically against his iron hold. "He will hunt you down! He will put you in a federal prison for the rest of your life!"

Dante laughed—a low, dark rumble that vibrated straight through her shoulder blades.

"Your father has spent five years trying to put me in prison, little bird," Dante whispered, his lips brushing the curve of her jaw as he lifted her feet off the wet pavement. "And by tomorrow morning, he is going to sign a dismissal of all charges against me. Because he is going to learn that I own everything in this city. Including his daughter."

Before Sofia could scream, Dante stepped into the warm leather interior of the Escalade, pulling her in with him, and slammed the heavy door shut against the night.

As the black Escalade surged forward into the rain-drenched avenues of Manhattan, Sofia’s breath came in ragged, terrified gasps.

She pressed herself as far back into the corner of the leather seat as physically possible, nursing her bruised wrist where Dante’s grip had clamped down like an iron vise. Outside the tinted bulletproof windows, the neon lights of Broadway and Columbus Circle blurred past in streaks of red, gold, and neon blue, completely indifferent to the kidnapping taking place inside the armored vehicle.

Dante sat barely two feet away from her.

He didn't tie her hands. He didn't blindfold her. He simply sat with his long, muscular legs stretched out, his overcoat unbuttoned, tapping a rhythmic cadence on his knee. The casual, absolute calm with which he operated was far more terrifying than any drawn weapon.

"You're making a catastrophic mistake, DeLuca," Sofia said, her voice shaking with fury, refusing to let him see the cold terror clawing at her throat. "The FBI has your shipping docks wiretapped. If I am not at the Lincoln Center rehearsal hall by nine tomorrow morning, my father will unleash the federal marshals on every club you own."

Dante turned his head slowly. The amber streetlights passing overhead illuminated the razor-sharp planes of his sculpted jaw and the pale scar beneath his right eye.

"Your father’s wiretaps were disconnected forty-eight hours ago by his own Deputy Director, Sofia," Dante murmured, his gravelly baritone smooth as silk. "Marcus Laurent thinks he is a chess master playing with pawns. What the fool doesn't understand is that in New York, the board belongs to the DeLuca family. I know when he wakes up, I know what he drinks, and I know that he hasn't looked you in the eye in six months because he only sees your cello as a photo opportunity for his political donors."

The accuracy of his words struck Sofia like an open-handed slap. A hot lump formed in her throat. Her father had missed her last three recitals; he hadn't asked about her music since he announced his exploratory committee for the mayor's office.

"You don't know anything about my family," she whispered, her chin lifting with defensive pride.

"I know that you're sitting in my car, shivering in wet silk, trying to look brave while your pulse is hammering against your collarbone," Dante replied softly, his silver-hazel eyes locking onto the hollow of her throat where her heartbeat was visibly fluttering. A slow, predatory smirk curved his lips. "Don't worry, little bird. I don't intend to harm a single hair on your head. As long as you follow my rules, you will find that my cage is far more comfortable than your father's cold house."

Before Sofia could formulate another insult, the Escalade pulled into an underground private parking garage on the Upper West Side, the steel security gate slamming down with a heavy, final clang.