Chapter 8 - Dante
Chap-ter 8 - Dante
The ware-house smells like sweat, blood, and death.
The scent clings to my skin, set-tles in my lungs like poi-son. The air is thick, stale, and tainted with the metal-lic tang of blood, mix-ing with the faint stench of old gaso-line and mildew. The only light in the cav-ernous space comes from a sin-gle flick-er-ing bulb hang-ing above the bat-tered man tied to the metal chair in front of me. Shad-ows stretch long and jagged across the con-crete floor, shift-ing ev-ery time the bulb sways slightly in its fix-ture.
His face is swollen be-yond recog-ni-tion, one eye nearly shut from the force of my punches, his lip split wide open. Blood drips steadily onto the floor be-neath him, pool-ing in the cracks of the con-crete. He wheezes, his breath ragged, hitch-ing with each shal-low in-hale.
I flex my fin-gers, rolling my shoul-ders as the sting of my own knuck-les throbs faintly in the back-ground of my aware-ness. The pain barely reg-is-ters.
“Start talk-ing,” I mut-ter, my voice low, edged with a sharp, con-trolled rage.
The man coughs, a wet, rat-tling sound, then lifts his head. A slow, al-most amused smirk tugs at his busted lips. He sways slightly in the chair, the re-straints dig-ging into his bruised wrists.
“The Ro-mano girl,” he croaks, his voice hoarse and raw. “She’s al-ready dead.”
Luca shifts against the wall, arms crossed, his ex-pres-sion un-read-able. He’s been watch-ing in si-lence, let-ting me work, but at those words, I feel his pos-ture change. The air shifts. My pulse ham-mers in my ears.
I ex-hale through my nose, a slow, con-trolled breath, but the rage in-side me coils tighter, threat-en-ing to snap.
I grab the man’s hair and yank his head back, forc-ing him to look at me. His smirk doesn’t wa-ver, even as his split lip cracks open fur-ther, fresh blood trick-ling down his chin.
“Who sent you?” I de-mand, my voice dan-ger-ously quiet.
His smirk widens, flash-ing blood-stained teeth in the dim light. There’s some-thing al-most glee-ful in his bat-tered ex-pres-sion, like he’s sa-vor-ing this mo-ment. Like he knows some-thing I don’t.
“It doesn’t mat-ter,” he breathes, his voice laced with sat-is-fac-tion. “It’s al-ready in mo-tion. You can’t stop it.”
Some-thing cold slith-ers down my spine.
I press the knife against his throat, my pa-tience dis-in-te-grat-ing. The sharp edge bites into his skin, a thin line of crim-son bead-ing along the blade. His pulse flut-ters against the steel, but he doesn’t flinch.
“Tell me what the fuck is hap-pen-ing,” I growl, my grip tight-en-ing.
A dark chuckle spills from his lips, weak but mock-ing.
“By the time you fig-ure it out, Russo….” His breath shud-ders, his body trem-bling. “She’ll al-ready be dead.”
A switch flips in-side me.
Be-fore I can think, be-fore I can stop my-self, I press the blade harder. Not enough to kill—yet—but enough to make him un-der-stand just how thin the thread of his life is right now.
Then—
He shud-ders.
His body jerks vi-o-lently, eyes rolling back into his skull. A gut-tural, chok-ing sound gur-gles from his throat, foam gath-er-ing at the cor-ners of his mouth.
Luca curses, push-ing off the wall. “Shit. He’s seiz-ing.”
I re-lease him im-me-di-ately, step-ping back as his body con-vulses, his limbs strain-ing against the re-straints. His breath rat-tles, a sick-en-ing, des-per-ate sound—then it stops al-to-gether.
Si-lence.
Luca crouches be-side the body, press-ing two fin-gers against the man’s neck. A tense sec-ond passes. Then he ex-hales sharply, shak-ing his head.
“Poi-son,” he mut-ters. “Some-one got to him first.”
My blood runs cold.
That means who-ever is hunt-ing Elena is still out there. Who-ever set this in mo-tion isn’t fin-ished.
And they’re one step ahead of us.
I don’t wait.
I turn and storm out of the ware-house, my pulse ham-mer-ing in my ears, my breath com-ing sharp and fast. My hands clench and un-clench at my sides as I shove the ware-house doors open and step into the cold night air.
I need to get back to her.
Now.
The mo-ment I step into the pent-house, some-thing feels off. A heav-i-ness lingers in the air, thick and suf-fo-cat-ing. The guards sta-tioned at the en-trance hes-i-tate when they see me, their pos-tures rigid, their eyes be-tray-ing some-thing they don’t want to say. A slow, crawl-ing un-ease set-tles in my gut.
I stop mid-step, my voice sharp and de-mand-ing. “Where is she?”
Si-lence stretches too long. The weight in my chest turns to stone.
Fi-nally, one guard clears his throat. “She left.”
A cold, deadly pause. I swear the tem-per-a-ture in the room drops.
“She what?” My voice is dan-ger-ously quiet now, a blade against their throats.
“She, uh…she said she needed more sup-plies for bak-ing.”
A roar-ing starts in my ears.
“She wanted to get out for a bit. Said you were be-ing para-noid,” the guard con-tin-ues, his words tum-bling over them-selves in an at-tempt to jus-tify the un-for-giv-able. “She wasn’t alone—one of the guys fol-lowed her.”
Rage claws its way up my spine, hot and con-sum-ing. Not fuck-ing enough.
Be-fore I can think, I lunge, grab-bing the near-est guard by the col-lar and slam-ming him against the wall. The force rat-tles the paint-ings be-hind him.
“And you let her?” My voice is a growl, low and men-ac-ing.
“She in-sisted!” he sput-ters, hands grip-ping my wrists. “She—”
I re-lease him roughly, turn-ing to Luca, whose face is al-ready tight with un-der-stand-ing. With-out a word, he’s di-al-ing. The phone rings. And rings. And then—stops. No an-swer.
“Fuck,” he mut-ters un-der his breath.
The roar-ing in my head crescen-dos, deaf-en-ing now. And then, like a whis-per cut-ting through the noise, a mem-ory echoes.
"The Ro-mano girl…she’s al-ready dead."
No.
No, fuck that.
I grab my gun, shov-ing ex-tra mag-a-zines into my pock-ets, my en-tire body coil-ing like a preda-tor be-fore the kill.
I don’t wait for backup. I don’t think.
I move.
Be-cause if that bas-tard was telling the truth—
The hit is al-ready hap-pen-ing.
The mar-ket is chaos.
Even be-fore I spot her, I feel her pres-ence, like a tether pulling me in. And then—I see her.
She’s stand-ing by a ven-dor’s stall, a bag of flour cra-dled in her arms, com-pletely un-aware of the fuck-ing war-zone about to de-scend on her.
She’s smil-ing.
She’s fuck-ing smil-ing.
And then—
Gun-fire.
A black van screeches around the cor-ner, tires shriek-ing against the pave-ment. The side doors slide open, and masked men lean out, weapons drawn, their aim locked onto her.
My blood turns to ice.
“Elena!” I roar.
Her head turns just as I reach her, and then—I tackle her, slam-ming us both to the ground be-hind a fruit stand.
The first shots rip through the air, smash-ing into wooden crates and send-ing ap-ples and or-anges fly-ing in ev-ery di-rec-tion. Peo-ple scream, scat-ter-ing like birds, knock-ing over ta-bles and bas-kets in their panic.
Elena gasps be-neath me, her body tens-ing in shock. “What the—”
“Stay down,” I snarl, al-ready draw-ing my gun.
I pop up just enough to aim. No hes-i-ta-tion. No sec-ond chances.
The first shot takes out the driver, and the sec-ond slams into one of the masked men, his body jerk-ing be-fore he slumps over the side of the van.
More gun-fire erupts from the op-po-site end of the mar-ket.
Luca.
He’s in po-si-tion, mov-ing like a ghost, cut-ting down the re-main-ing at-tack-ers with bru-tal pre-ci-sion. But more are clos-ing in. Too many.
I grab Elena’s wrist, yank-ing her up. “Run.”
She stum-bles, her eyes wide, ter-ri-fied. “Dante—”
“Now.”
We weave through the chaos, bul-lets chas-ing us. I stay be-hind her, my body act-ing as her shield.
A shot grazes my shoul-der, pain flash-ing hot and sharp, but I don’t stop.
I don’t fuck-ing stop.
Be-cause if I do—
She’s dead.
The car’s en-gine growls as I slam my foot on the gas, weav-ing through nar-row streets at break-neck speed. Tires shriek against the as-phalt, the scent of burn-ing rub-ber fill-ing the cabin as I take a cor-ner too fast, barely miss-ing a parked car. My grip on the wheel is a vice, knuck-les white, jaw clenched so hard it aches.
Be-side me, Elena is frozen in place, her fin-gers dig-ging into the leather seat. Her breath comes in shal-low gasps, her chest ris-ing and fall-ing too fast. Shock. Fear. The rem-nants of an adren-a-line rush that hasn’t worn off yet.
She hasn’t said a word. Not since I shoved her into the car, not since the bul-lets stopped fly-ing.
But I feel it—her pulse, her panic, the way her en-tire body trem-bles in the dim glow of the dash-board lights.
I take an-other turn, the road ahead empty, swal-lowed by the dark-ness of the city’s out-skirts. The safe-house isn’t far now. Just a few more miles, and we’ll be be-hind re-in-forced steel doors, miles away from pry-ing eyes and en-e-mies lurk-ing in the shad-ows.
Still, the words of that dy-ing man echo in my head. The Ro-mano girl…she’s al-ready dead.
Not fuck-ing hap-pen-ing.
I check the rear-view mir-ror. No head-lights. No tail-ing cars. Just the pitch-black road stretch-ing be-hind us. Still, I don’t slow down. I don’t take chances. Not with her life.
Fif-teen min-utes later, I pull off the main road, tires crunch-ing over gravel as I nav-i-gate the wind-ing path lead-ing to the safe house. It’s noth-ing spe-cial from the out-side—an old, aban-doned cabin with boarded-up win-dows and a rusted-out car frame in the drive-way. But un-der-ground? It’s a god-damn fortress.
I kill the en-gine. The sud-den si-lence is deaf-en-ing.
For a mo-ment, nei-ther of us moves. The night stretches around us, thick with ten-sion.
Then—Elena ex-hales shak-ily, her voice barely above a whis-per. “They were go-ing to kill me.”
I drag a hand over my face, ex-haus-tion set-tling into my bones. “Yeah.”
She swal-lows hard, her fin-gers tight-en-ing around the edge of her seat. “They al-most did.”
I fi-nally turn my head, meet-ing her gaze.
Her hazel eyes are wide, pupils blown, and her lips are parted as if she’s still strug-gling to breathe. There’s no more de-nial. No more pre-tend-ing this is just some mafia feud she can ig-nore, some-thing hap-pen-ing in the back-ground of her life.
She knows.
This isn’t a game.
It never was.
She’s marked.
And I’m the only thing stand-ing be-tween her and death.
I un-buckle my seat-belt and reach for the door. “Come on. We need to get in-side.”
She doesn’t move at first. Just sits there, star-ing ahead, like she’s still back in that mar-ket, still hear-ing the gun-shots.
“Elena.” My voice is softer this time, but firm. “Let’s go.”
She blinks, nods once, then reaches for the door han-dle with a shaky breath.
The sec-ond she steps out, the cold night air wraps around her, and she shud-ders. Whether from fear or the chill, I don’t know. But when I place a hand on the small of her back, guid-ing her to-ward the en-trance, she doesn’t pull away.
In-side, the safe house is dark. Cold. The faint scent of dust and gun oil lingers in the air. Luca’s al-ready here—he must’ve driven ahead, clear-ing the place be-fore we ar-rived. He nods from his po-si-tion by the se-cu-rity mon-i-tors but doesn’t say a word.
I lock the door be-hind us, en-gag-ing ev-ery re-in-forced mech-a-nism, and then I flip on the lights. The un-der-ground bunker hums to life—sur-veil-lance feeds flick-er-ing onto screens, a stock-pile of weapons lin-ing the walls, a cot in the cor-ner where she’ll have to sleep.
Elena stands in the mid-dle of the room, arms wrapped around her-self.
I grab a bot-tle of whiskey from the shelf, pour a glass, and hold it out to her. “Drink.”
She hes-i-tates, then takes it with both hands, her fin-gers still trem-bling. The first sip makes her wince, but she drinks any-way.
I watch her closely, search-ing for signs of de-layed shock, wait-ing for her to break.
In-stead, she looks up at me, some-thing raw in her gaze. “This isn’t over, is it?”
I shake my head. “No.”
She ex-hales, slow and steady. “They’ll come again.”
“Yes.”
She stud-ies me, search-ing my face for some-thing. For re-as-sur-ance. For a way out of this mess. As much as I want to do just that, I’ve em-braced liv-ing in the un-known, and if she wants to sur-vive, she must learn the same.