Chapter Eight – Severo #2
I smiled wider and gestured him toward the colonnade.
“Shall we continue? You came all this way, after all.”
The descent took longer than expected. The staircase coiled like a spine carved into the hillside—limestone walls, flickering sconces, and the faint hum of the security grid embedded behind the old stone.
Domenico followed behind me, silent now, though I could hear the tension in his breath, the barely restrained fury pulsing just behind his measured steps.
He walked like a man trying not to lunge.
The corridor opened into a vault-lined hallway. Soft recessed lights glowed amber along the ceiling, revealing four guards stationed evenly across the corridor. Two more flanked the steel door at the far end. She was behind that door.
Domenico slowed. He took in the presence of the guards, the lack of windows, the smooth, seamless floor that muffled footfall. His voice came low and disgusted as he stepped beside me.
“You locked her up. Like an animal.”
I stopped walking.
The accusation landed harder than he intended. It rang through the corridor, scraped up something inside me that I didn’t like.
I turned toward him with a frown, one gloved hand lifting in protest.
“Hey. This is a state-of-the-art room, all right?” I gestured to the hallway behind us, then the door ahead. “Soundproof. Temperature-controlled. She has a bed custom-built to support the spine and a full en-suite with rainfall showerheads. Better than mine, honestly.”
He didn’t look impressed. He looked murderous.
I clicked my tongue and pointed at the steel door. “The outside still needs work, sure, but you haven’t seen the inside yet, so let’s not be judgy.”
I stepped forward and keyed in the security code. A gentle chime answered, and the lock disengaged with a hiss of compressed air. The door opened slowly, swinging inward with quiet mechanical precision.
And then I saw it.
We both did.
The light from the corridor spilled across the floor—stone, warm-colored, polished clean—and up the edge of the bedframe. The room smelled faintly of lavender, still preserved from this morning’s diffuser.
But our eyes weren’t on the walls.
She hung just above the bed.
The vent at the top corner of the room had been partially dislodged, and her dress—ivory, linen, light—had been threaded through the grate and twisted back down around her neck.
Her body hovered inches above the mattress, limbs trembling.
Her arms were slack at her sides. Her bare legs pointed downward, one ankle twitching erratically with each convulsion.
She was dressed only in lace underthings—white bra, delicate, floral mesh, the matching panties pressed against her hipbones.
Her toes no longer touched the bed.
The moment I saw the way her body moved—unnatural, rhythmic, jerking against the air—I was through the threshold in seconds.
“Shit—fuck—no, no, no—” The words came hard and fast, broken beneath as I shoved past the door and surged toward the bed.
My boots thudded against the polished stone, the corner of the frame bit into my shin, but I climbed onto the mattress without pause.
Her legs were trembling just inches from my chest now, her toes curled downward, and her skin—
Her skin was greying at the edges.
Guards flooded in behind me, heavy footsteps colliding with each other, bodies blocking the light.
The room, once silent and still, erupted into movement.
I reached up with both hands and wrapped my arms around her waist, lifting—just enough to take the pressure off the makeshift noose.
Her head lolled against my shoulder, hair tangled across her face, the linen twisted tight around her throat.
“Find a fucking knife!” I roared. “Now!”
A guard near the hallway spun back out the door without waiting for confirmation.
Another one stumbled forward a moment later with a switchblade already half-open. He clambered onto the bed beside me, arm reaching high, sawing through the fabric with jagged movements.
The dress gave way.
She fell with me as the final threads snapped, her weight collapsing into my chest, dead weight—no, not dead, not yet—warm and trembling.
We hit the mattress hard, her body slack against mine, the scent of sweat and lavender clinging to her skin.
Her bra strap had slipped halfway down one arm, and the bruising had already started to bloom faintly beneath her collarbone.
I turned her gently, pressing my fingers hard against the hollow of her chest, just above the heart. My gloves were slick from the heat, clumsy. I pulled them off with my teeth and pressed again, with bare skin.
“Fuck,” I muttered. “Come on—fuck—don’t—”
Her pulse was faint. Unsteady.
I leaned closer and felt the rise of her chest, barely there. A whisper of air moved past her lips. It wasn’t enough.
“Get the fucking doctor,” I shouted, my voice cracking . “Tell Matteo—now!”
One of the guards had already ducked into the hallway, yelling into his comms.
I looked down again, focused on her eyelashes, on the edge of her lip twitching involuntarily. Her breath came in shallow bursts now. Still alive. But close.
Then something shifted in the corner of my eye.
At the doorway, Domenico stood frozen. His face had gone bright red, blotched like a man in shock.
He was gripping his chest with one hand, fingers clawed into the fabric of his shirt as if he could hold himself together through will alone.
His knees buckled slightly, and he took one step forward—then another—and then he collapsed.
Straight down.
His shoulder slammed into the edge of the threshold, his body crumpling like a rag soaked in water. His chest rose , then not again.
I blinked.
“You have to be kidding me,” I muttered.
Another guard shouted something unintelligible. I didn’t respond.
I was still holding her. Still feeling the tiny pull of air dragging through her throat. Still counting the space between each breath like it might buy me time.
****
The light in the room had been dimmed to a warm amber hue, the air cool from the ventilation reset.
Someone had brought in a fresh linen sheet and draped it over her body while the doctor worked—one of mine, of course, not a civilian.
Her name was Alma, and she’d been fixing bullet holes and broken bones for my family since she was twenty-three.
Lira’s body lay still on the mattress, her chest rising evenly beneath the sheet.
A fresh oxygen line curved gently around her face, resting under her nose.
Her hair had been pushed back from her forehead; the damp strands tucked behind her ears.
A cuff beeped softly as it registered her pulse, steady now, just above resting.
Alma adjusted the stethoscope, placed it low on the girl’s ribs, and listened for a moment before leaning back. She removed the device from her ears and snapped it around her neck.
“You got to her just in time,” she said, turning toward me. “No permanent trauma. No hypoxia, no vascular strain. She fainted halfway through—likely a psychological response, not physiological. Panic. Claustrophobia, maybe.”
I nodded and crossed my arms, watching the girl’s mouth shift slightly as if chasing a thought in sleep. Her eyelashes fluttered, then stilled.
Alma stood straighter and peeled off her gloves. She snapped them off and let them fall into the bin near the bed.
“You always play games, Severo,” she said, slipping her coat sleeve down and fastening the button. “But I want you to know—this one’s different. She’s fragile. Maybe too fragile for your little entertainment.”
I smiled at her, slow and soft.
She returned it, all teeth and calculation.
“But I’m not fragile,” she said. “So come play with me sometime.”
She winked.
I chuckled under my breath, stepped forward, and pressed a kiss to her lips—light. No heat, but enough to make her grin.
“Invite accepted,” I said.
She brushed her coat smooth and turned to the door.
“This is how I know I won’t see you until someone’s bleeding again,” she said, already halfway down the hall.
I watched her go, let the scent of antiseptic fade behind her, then turned down the corridor that led to the far recovery room. A smaller wing. Quieter. One I used when the estate got loud.
He was there.
Domenico.
They’d moved him after he collapsed—tucked him into the guest cot with a saline drip and the full vigilance of my men rotating every half hour.
I stepped toward the door and pushed it open, fingers tapping against the frame.
He was lying on his back, breathing deep, arm flung across his torso like he’d passed out mid-confession.
His legs dangled slightly off the end, boots gone, undershirt rumpled and sweat-stained. A crease had formed along the side of his face from where he’d been turned against the pillow. His chest rose steadily now. Whatever episode had taken him earlier had passed.
I sighed.
And just as the sound left my mouth, his body jerked upright, like a switch had been thrown in his spine.
“Where is she?” he shouted, eyes wild. “Where is she?”
I pushed off the doorframe and stepped forward, voice level but lazily clipped.
“Relax. She’s fine. No thanks to you.”
He dragged in a breath and held his chest. His hand trembled slightly, but he masked it well—like a man used to holding himself together with stitches and grit.
“Are you sure?”
“The doctor says there’s no damage. No torn ligaments. Just fear.” I paused, tilting my head as I watched him process that. “Psychological, mostly. She blacked out before the body could do real harm. Lucky girl.”
Mico’s legs swung over the edge of the bed. He planted his feet wide and stood up with the kind of focus that meant every breath still hurt, but he didn’t care.
“I’m taking her home,” he said. “And this madness ends today.”
He turned toward the door.
“Then I take it,” I said casually, “you already know about her inheritance.”
He stopped.
“You didn’t come in here asking questions. You didn’t demand explanations. You walked through my gates with a storm in your chest and not a shred of surprise. Which means you know who I am.”
He turned slowly, his mouth grim.
“Severo Dantès. Capofamiglia of the Dante line. Smuggler. Arms dealer. One of the founding architects of the Gilded Syndicate. You broke twelve trade treaties in the southern corridor. You had a magistrate murdered in his own house and called it art.”
My grin widened.
“You’ve been doing your homework.”
“I could get you arrested,” he said, jaw tight.
I took a few steps forward and motioned to the walls. “But have not. And that’s how I know you know.”
He didn’t respond.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said instead. “I’m taking her away.”
I spread my hands. “I’m a fair man, Salviati. So, I’ll work a deal with you.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“I want her,” I said simply. “I don’t know what she means to you. I don’t really care. But for me, she’s worth everything—my pride, my legacy, my name.”
His fists clenched.
“If you think I’ll let her be part of your sick games,” he snapped, “think again.”
I didn’t flinch. “I want to marry her. I’ll give her a happy, safe life. Everything she ever wanted. No debts. No danger.”
“There’s no need for that kind of generosity,” Mico bit out. “She doesn’t need your ill-gotten wealth. Or your dirty power.”
I stepped closer, letting my tone drop a note, calm and matter-of-fact.
“She needs to renounce her legacy herself. Until she does, she’s a beacon. A claim waiting to be filed. You can’t protect her from what she doesn’t understand.”
“She will,” he said, voice hard.
I studied him for a moment—chest heaving slightly, pulse pounding at his temple, the room’s low light painting every shadow deeper on his face.
“That’s where you’re mistaken,” I said.
“You don’t know her!” he yelled.
He was still breathing hard, nostrils flaring slightly with each exhale.
There was heat behind his eyes, the kind that hadn't burned out yet.
It clung to him, smoldering just beneath the surface.
He looked ready to tear the room apart, but the weight of my calm was starting to work on him.
He was listening. And listening men could be led.
I lifted a hand to my chest, brushed a speck of lint from the edge of my lapel, and let the silence stretch.
Then I said, “Let’s make a deal.”
His eyes narrowed.
“If you can convince her to renounce her legacy,” I continued, voice smooth as silk over steel, “I’ll let you leave this place alive.”
The words hung between us like mist.
“I’ll even forget about the punch,” I added, rolling my shoulder with a slight wince. “We’ll call it... an unfortunate turn of events.”
Mico stared at me, jaw clenched, every muscle in his body drawn tight like wire under strain.
“You’re playing a losing bet,” he said. “But let me humor you. What do you get if I lose?”
I tilted my head and made a show of thinking. Eyes to the ceiling. Lips pursed slightly. Then I shrugged with a faint, deliberate pout.
“I’ll leave it to her to decide.”
He blinked. “What?”
I stepped closer. Just one measured pace. Enough to cut the space between us in half. The corner of my mouth curved upward—slow, creeping, unrepentant.
“When she chooses her inheritance,” I said, gaze steady, “and you lose... she’ll decide how best to punish you for wagering her.”
His breath caught.
We stood like that, locked.
He held the stare with everything he had, his chest rising and falling with the weight of held-back words. Rage trembled in his hands, but he didn’t move. I saw the calculations shifting behind his eyes, the panic underneath the defiance.
He hated me for enjoying this.
Good.
I waited.
And when he finally spoke, the words came slow, pushed between clenched teeth like a warning fired through gritted steel.
“I want to see her. Now.”
My grin widened.
“Of course.” I gestured to the door, voice light with triumph. “She’s just down the hall.”