Marked, Broken, and Carrying His Heir

Novalee Chapter Two: Dante’s Approach

The day was dragging toward its close when Novalee caught sight of headlights through the rain-drenched windows of the storage facility office. The heavy storm was relentless, sheets of water smattering against the glass, dimming the streetlights into hazy halos. The clock on the wall showed ten minutes to closing, and Novalee had already begun her end-of-shift routine—stacking paper, tidying the cluttered desk, and pressing the button on the coffee machine to set it up for brewing the next morning.

That was when the black SUVs pulled into the lot.

She didn’t have to know who they were, or who drove them—no one around here had vehicles like that unless they were something else entirely. The men inside were just as imposing as their vehicles. Tall, broad-shouldered figures dressed in dark suits and matching ties, their expressions as unreadable as the glassy rain splattering against the windows. The heaviness of their presence didn't need to be verbalized; it spoke in the way the air seemed to tense.

All the men were holding an umbrella but one in particular, a tall athletic built man with jet black hair was holding an umbrella not for himself, but positioned over the entrance to shield his boss from the rain. Novalee stood by the counter, holding her breath as the man who was apparently their leader—Dante though she did not know his name yet—stepped into the office.

He was a striking figure. The dim glow of the overhead lights and the darkness from the rain cast shadows that seemed to wrap around him like a cloak. Sunlit blonde hair, eyes so blue they were white—a man with an aura of power. As he entered, Novalee immediately noticed the cigarette hanging from his lips. His gaze met hers, a flicker of amusement passing over his face when he took in the small, seemingly insignificant woman standing across the desk from him.

He took a slow drag, the smoke swirling up. It smelled like cherries, dancing languidly in the still air. Novalee’s chest tightened with something like irritation. She had seen all types come through here: gruff, talkative, unreasonable. But this was different. This was untouchable and rude.

Without missing a beat, Novalee stood her ground. She straightened her spine, not one ounce of hesitation in her. Her voice came out calm, but firm—a tone that held the weight of authority she rarely needed to exercise.

"I’m going to ask that you extinguish that outside. This is a non-smoking facility."

His eyes narrowed slightly, an amused smirk curling at the corner of his mouth as he regarded her. It was almost as if he couldn’t decide whether to humor her or ignore her entirely. His fingers twitched slightly on the cigarette, but he didn’t move to put it out.

The men behind him shuffled awkwardly, their stoic expressions betraying nothing.

Dante raised an eyebrow. "And if I don't?"

"Then I’ll have to ask you to leave the premises and we will not do business with you," she responded, her tone still polite, but unwavering. "I really don’t mind when it is off the grounds of the property. Even outside the building as long as you pick up your bud, but the rules are clear, Mr...?" She waited for him to provide his name, her gaze unblinking.

For a second, there was a pulse of tension in the air, thick and dangerous.

Then, without a word, Dante glanced over his shoulder. "Atlas," he said quietly, his voice edged with authority. "Dispose of it. "

A man—the same one who had carried the umbrella for him— nodded curtly, and took the cigarette from Dante’s hand with a move that almost seemed rehearsed. As Atlas stepped outside to put it out, Dante turned back to Novalee, his eyes locking with hers.

"Respectable," he murmured, as though intrigued. "Most people don’t have the courage to challenge me. My name is Santoro, Dante Santoro."

Novalee watched as the faintest trace of a smile ghosted across his lips, and though his words could’ve been threatening, there was something about the way he said them that made her feel violated.

Her resolve hardened, and she swiftly turned her attention to the task at hand. "Let’s get this taken care of then. I’ve got your paperwork right here, Mr. Santoro."

She didn’t need to know much about who this man was. That wasn’t her role. But what she did know was the process. Names, numbers, codes—routine. Just another day.

After a few brief exchanges about the specifics of the rental, including account details and confirmation for "Vanguard Imports"—an operation that felt too vague, too generic and too clean-sounding for its size—she handed him the packet she had already prepared. It contained the key details: a map to his unit, basic instructions, and the notice that his unit’s keys were safely inside, waiting for him.

She made sure the final task was handled with business-like precision, leaning across the desk just enough for him to take the packet.

He took it from her hands without a word, and for a moment, she thought that was the last of it. That would be the end of their interaction, their respective roles neatly concluded.

But as he shifted to leave, something changed. Dante’s hand reached across the desk unexpectedly, brushing against her cheek in a motion so smooth, so deliberate, that her body froze for a split second.

Her breath caught in her throat. And then, with no hesitation, she jerked back, hand whipping forward to slap his own away from her. Stepping away from him with the desk between then, her eyes wide and cool with purpose.

"Have a nice day, Mr. Santoro," she said curtly, her voice firm but edged with a warning that could be easily lost on someone accustomed to power and silence. "And take care of your business."

For a long moment, the air felt still again. Her gaze didn’t waver, but there was a strange flush rising to her neck that she quickly masked. The men standing behind Dante glanced at one another, surprise flickering in their expression—but still, none of them said a word.

Dante watched her carefully, though his eyes remained unreadable. And then, almost as an afterthought, he turned to leave, the entourage of men falling in behind him. The air felt too thick, the silence deafening, even in the wake of his departure.

With the click of the door shutting, the only sound left in the office was the deep, rhythmic beating of Novalee’s pulse. Even the rain seemed to stop as they drove out of the parking lot without even going to check their unit.

She closed the door and locked it behind him.

As she moved to tidy the last of her things, her mind wandered back to the man, his movements, the flicker of interest in his eyes.

Who was he?

She wasn’t sure yet, but something told her it wasn’t the last time their paths would cross even as a tenant in her storage facility. And with that realization, a strange, unsettling pull gnawed at her insides. She was tired. But something in her bones whispered: This had only just begun.