Chapter 14 - Elena
Chap-ter 14 - Elena
The first thing I reg-is-ter is the cold.
Not the kind that brushes against skin—it’s deeper than that. It seeps into my bones, coils around my ribs, bur-rows into my veins. Ev-ery breath I take tastes of damp earth and rusted iron. My body aches, mus-cles stiff from be-ing bound too long, the ropes dig-ging into the raw skin of my wrists.
I force my eyes open. The dim can-dle-light flick-ers against the stone walls, cast-ing jagged shad-ows that twist and stretch like ghosts. The air is thick—stale, suf-fo-cat-ing—heavy with mildew and the metal-lic tang of some-thing darker.
Then—
A sound.
A soft clink. Slow. De-lib-er-ate.
I turn my head, pain lanc-ing through my neck, and I see her.
Is-abella Ro-mano.
She lounges in a chair, sleek and com-posed, as if this is just an-other busi-ness meet-ing and not a death sen-tence. Her black dress clings to her like sec-ond skin, and in her hand, she swirls a glass of deep red wine. Her nails—long, man-i-cured, painted the same shade of crim-son—tap lazily against the rim. The pic-ture of ease. Of amuse-ment.
Of con-trol.
My stom-ach knots, but I force my spine straight, ig-nor-ing the sting as the ropes bite deeper into my wrists. She won’t see me break. She won’t see the fear press-ing against my ribs, claw-ing its way up my throat.
Is-abella ex-hales, tilt-ing her head as if she’s dis-ap-pointed. As if my cap-ture was in-evitable.
"You should have run faster, sorella," she mur-murs, her voice smooth as silk, sharp as steel. "But I sup-pose it was only a mat-ter of time be-fore you ended up ex-actly where you be-long."
I swal-low the bit-ter taste of anger. My pulse pounds, but I don’t flinch.
"And where is that?" I ask, my voice stead-ier than I feel.
Her smile is slow—ven-omous. "Buried."
The word slith-ers be-tween us, thick with prom-ise. A death sen-tence.
My hands curl into fists, the rough fibers of the rope bit-ing into my skin. The fear is there, sim-mer-ing be-neath the sur-face, but I push it back. Not now. Not in front of her.
I shift slightly, test-ing the re-straints. The rope is tight but not per-fect. There’s some give. Not much, but enough.
A chance.
I keep my face blank, my breath-ing even. Is-abella thinks she’s won. That she has me ex-actly where she wants me.
She’s wrong.
Be-cause Dante is com-ing.
Or at least, I pray he is. That’s my only hope now.
And when he does—
There will be noth-ing left of her but dust.
The door slams open with such force that the can-dle-light trem-bles.
I barely have time to re-act be-fore he’s there.
Dante.
Gun drawn. Eyes burn-ing.
A storm of fury, de-struc-tion, and some-thing else—some-thing raw.
Re-lief crashes over me so hard I al-most choke on it.
Is-abella, to her credit, doesn’t flinch. She turns to-ward him with the same cal-cu-lated grace, her lips curl-ing in amuse-ment.
"Well, well, well," she purrs. "That was quick."
Dante doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. His aim is steady, his breath-ing mea-sured, but I can see the vi-o-lence brew-ing be-neath the sur-face.
Is-abella swirls the last of her wine be-fore set-ting the glass down with an in-fu-ri-at-ing air of ease.
"You should have killed me when you had the chance, Russo," she muses.
Dante doesn’t an-swer. Doesn’t need to.
Be-cause in the next sec-ond, he moves.
One step. That’s all it takes.
Then his hand is around her throat, slam-ming her against the cold stone wall.
She gasps, her nails claw-ing at his wrist, but the smirk never fully leaves her lips.
"I should put a bul-let in your head right now," Dante growls, his voice dark, lethal. His grip tight-ens.
Is-abella lets out a breath-less laugh, eyes gleam-ing with some-thing wicked.
"Go ahead, Russo," she whis-pers. "But you’ll never stop what’s com-ing."
I don’t hes-i-tate.
While she’s dis-tracted, I yank against the rope again, ig-nor-ing the sear-ing pain in my wrists.
It gives. Just enough.
In a sin-gle, fluid move-ment, I twist, my fin-gers clos-ing around the knife ly-ing just inches from my chair—
And I drive it deep into Is-abella’s arm.
Her scream is sharp. Raw.
Dante doesn’t give her time to re-cover.
In an in-stant, the gun is pressed to her tem-ple.
I breathe hard, my body thrum-ming, adren-a-line roar-ing in my veins.
Dante’s hand finds mine, his grip firm, steady. His voice is rough but cer-tain. "We have to go. Now."
I nod.
There’s no hes-i-ta-tion.
To-gether, we run.
The door to the safe-house slams shut be-hind us, the sound echo-ing in the si-lence.
For a mo-ment, nei-ther of us moves.
My body is thrum-ming with ex-haus-tion, ev-ery mus-cle aching, ev-ery nerve still wired from the es-cape. My wrists burn, the raw skin puls-ing with each beat of my heart. My breaths come fast, sharp, my chest ris-ing and fall-ing in tan-dem with Dante’s.
We made it.
The thought barely reg-is-ters be-fore the adren-a-line starts to fade, and the weight of ev-ery-thing crashes down. The cold. The fear. The way Is-abella’s voice still lingers in my head like a poi-son I can’t shake.
I turn to Dante. He’s lean-ing against the door, head tilted back, eyes closed for the briefest sec-ond. His shirt is torn, streaked with blood—some of it his, most of it not. He looks like some-thing carved from war it-self, raw and un-yield-ing.
And yet, in this mo-ment, he’s here. Alive.
We both are.
Nei-ther of us speaks as we stum-ble to-ward the bed, ex-haus-tion pulling at us like grav-ity. The mat-tress gives un-der our weight as we col-lapse onto it, breath-ing hard.
The space be-tween us dis-ap-pears in an in-stant.
One sec-ond, I’m ly-ing be-side him, my body still shak-ing from the rush of it all. The next, I’m press-ing against him, my hands tan-gling in his shirt, pulling him closer, need-ing to feel some-thing—him.
Dante doesn’t hes-i-tate. His fin-gers thread into my hair, his lips crash against mine, and it’s heat, des-per-a-tion, a fire ig-nit-ing in the dark. There’s no hes-i-ta-tion, no sec-ond-guess-ing. Just us.
I shift, mov-ing over him, press-ing him into the mat-tress. My legs strad-dle his waist, my hands splay-ing against his chest, feel-ing the rapid rise and fall of his breath be-neath my fin-ger-tips.
Dante goes still be-neath me.
Not in re-sis-tance.
In awe.
His dark eyes lock onto mine, some-thing un-read-able swirling in their depths. Not just hunger. Not just pos-ses-sion.
Some-thing more.
I can feel his heart pound-ing. Or maybe it’s mine.
I press my lips to his again, slower this time, deeper, let-ting the world out-side fade to noth-ing.
Some-thing in his eyes is dif-fer-ent. Softer. Vul-ner-a-ble in a way I’ve never seen be-fore.
I swal-low hard, my voice quiet. “I want out.”
His grip tight-ens. Not in anger. Not in re-sis-tance. But as if he’s brac-ing for some-thing.
“I want a life,” I con-tinue, my fin-gers ghost-ing over his jaw. “A real one. Away from all of this.”
Dante ex-hales slowly. Then, he presses a kiss to my fore-head, lin-ger-ing.
“Then we leave.”
My breath catches. I blink up at him, not sure I heard him right.
I had ex-pected re-sis-tance. A fight. The this is who I am, Elena speech.
But in-stead—
He agrees.
“You’d do that?” I whis-per, voice barely au-di-ble.
Dante cups my face, his thumb brush-ing over my cheek, his gaze steady, un-wa-ver-ing.
“For you?” His voice is rough, his ex-pres-sion so damn sin-cere it makes my chest ache. “Yeah.”
And just like that—
It’s de-cided.
We won’t run.
We’ll start over.
To-gether.
The weight of his words set-tles over me like a slow-burn-ing flame.
"Then we leave."
I search his face, look-ing for hes-i-ta-tion, for doubt, for the un-spo-ken ties still bind-ing him to this life of blood and vengeance. But there’s none. Just cer-tainty. Just Dante.
For the first time, I al-low my-self to be-lieve that es-cape isn’t just a fan-tasy. That we could be more than ghosts slip-ping through the cracks of this bru-tal world. That we could have some-thing real.
Dante shifts be-neath me, his fin-gers still draw-ing slow, idle cir-cles against my back. The warmth of his skin seeps into mine, a ground-ing force, a silent re-as-sur-ance.
I ex-hale softly, press-ing my lips to his col-lar-bone, tast-ing the salt of his skin, the lin-ger-ing adren-a-line that still hums be-tween us. His body is a map I have traced be-fore, but tonight, it feels dif-fer-ent.
Tonight, we’re not just sur-viv-ing.
We’re be-gin-ning.
His hands move, slow and de-lib-er-ate, over the curve of my waist, up my spine, press-ing me closer. I let my-self sink into him, let my body melt against his, rev-el-ing in the way he holds me—like he never wants to let go.
"Say it," he mur-murs, his voice rough, his lips ghost-ing over my tem-ple.
My throat tight-ens.
I know what he’s ask-ing.
I push up slightly, just enough to meet his gaze. His dark eyes—al-ways so guarded, so un-read-able—are wide open now, raw and ex-posed. My fin-gers skim along his jaw, trac-ing the ten-sion there, the quiet bat-tle wag-ing be-neath his calm ex-te-rior.
I lean in, press-ing my lips to his, let-ting the words slip free, un-shaken, un-afraid.
"I love you."
A quiet, sharp in-hale. His grip on me tight-ens, his body go-ing still be-neath mine for a frac-tion of a sec-ond be-fore he ex-hales, slow and mea-sured. Then—
He moves.
In a heart-beat, he rolls us over, his weight press-ing me into the mat-tress, his hands fram-ing my face like I’m some-thing sa-cred. His lips crash against mine, not des-per-ate this time, but some-thing deeper. Some-thing fi-nal.
His mouth trails down my throat, trac-ing fire across my skin, leav-ing me arch-ing, trem-bling be-neath him. Ev-ery kiss, ev-ery touch, ev-ery whis-pered breath is a vow—a silent prom-ise that he is mine, that I am his, that noth-ing out-side this room, out-side this mo-ment, can touch us.
We are be-yond time.
Be-yond vi-o-lence.
Be-yond ev-ery-thing but this.
His name leaves my lips like a prayer, and when he fi-nally takes me—slow, rev-er-ent, claim-ing me with ev-ery move-ment—I know.
We’re not just es-cap-ing.
We’re free.
Epi-logue – A New Be-gin-ning
Dante Russo
I never thought I’d find peace.
For years, I be-lieved I was noth-ing more than a weapon—a man built for war, for killing, for de-struc-tion. I was raised in shad-ows, trained in vi-o-lence, my hands more ac-cus-tomed to the cold weight of a gun than the warmth of a lover’s touch. Blood stained my past, and for a long time, I thought it was all I would ever know.
But then she hap-pened.
Elena.
She carved through the dark-ness with noth-ing but her fire and her un-re-lent-ing be-lief that I could be more. That I was more.
And now—
Months af-ter we left, the feud be-tween the two fam-i-lies es-ca-lated into a full-blown war, with even the lo-cal po-lice get-ting in-volved. All those who know the truth about Elena’s true iden-tity are ei-ther dead or in-car-cer-ated. Elena chose to take my name; af-ter all, she is now my wife.
My days as a gang mem-ber are over.
In-stead of bul-lets, my hands shape dough. In-stead of knives, I wield a rolling pin. In-stead of plan-ning am-bushes, I watch Elena fuss over which pas-tries will sell best that day.
It should feel un-nat-u-ral. I should feel out of place, like an im-poster wear-ing a mask of nor-malcy.
But in-stead, it feels like breath-ing.
The scent of fresh bread lingers in the air, min-gling with the rich aroma of cof-fee. Sun-light spills through the bak-ery win-dows, golden and warm, kiss-ing ev-ery sur-face with a soft-ness I still don’t know how to ac-cept. The hum of the small town of Cuza wak-ing up out-side is a stark con-trast to the sirens and gun-fire that used to be my morn-ing sound-track.
Elena wipes her flour-dusted hands on her apron and turns to me, her lips quirk-ing into a know-ing smile. The sight of her like this—con-tent, safe, mine—un-rav-els some-thing in my chest ev-ery damn time.
“You ready for to-day?” she asks, arch-ing an eye-brow.
I glance at the trays of freshly baked bread, the del-i-cate pas-tries lined up in per-fect rows, the steam-ing cups of cof-fee al-ready wait-ing to be served. It’s a rou-tine now, one we’ve built to-gether. The early morn-ings, the quiet laugh-ter, the stolen kisses in the back of the kitchen when no one is look-ing.
I should be used to it by now.
But old habits die hard.
“No,” I dead-pan. “I still don’t un-der-stand why peo-ple will-ingly wake up this early.”
Elena laughs, rolling her eyes as she steps closer, stand-ing on her toes to press a soft kiss to my cheek.
“Be-cause they have some-thing worth wak-ing up for,” she mur-murs, her breath warm against my skin.
I slide an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against me, my fin-gers press-ing into the fab-ric of her apron. I still re-mem-ber the nights when fear clung to her like a sec-ond skin, when her night-mares were filled with shad-ows of the past. Now, she’s here, in my arms, in our quiet lit-tle world where dan-ger no longer waits around ev-ery cor-ner.
I tilt my head, let-ting my lips graze her ear.
“I do.”
Her breath hitches, her hands curl-ing into my shirt, but be-fore she can say any-thing, a sharp voice cuts through the mo-ment.
“Oh, my God, you two. We have cus-tomers com-ing in five min-utes. Con-tain your-selves.”
I turn my head just enough to glare at Sofia, our part-time em-ployee, who stands in the door-way with her arms crossed, look-ing en-tirely unim-pressed. Elena just snick-ers, her nose scrunch-ing in amuse-ment.
“You’re the one who wanted a job here,” she teases, pulling away with a re-luc-tant sigh.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t sign up for this.” Sofia ges-tures vaguely at the two of us. “You guys are worse than an over-dra-matic ro-mance novel.”
I huff a laugh, shak-ing my head as I grab a fresh tray of crois-sants. “Then quit.”
“Nah, the pay is good.” Sofia smirks, grab-bing a notepad. “And I get free pas-tries, so I guess I’ll suf-fer.”
Elena gig-gles, rolling her eyes be-fore flip-ping the sign on the door to OPEN. The first cus-tomer steps in-side, and I let my-self take it all in.
The sim-ple joy of a nor-mal life.
The woman who made it all pos-si-ble.
And the quiet cer-tainty that for the first time in my life—
I’m free.