Chapter 11 Elena
ELENA
The attack comes two nights later.
Luca is tucked against my side, a book open in my lap as I read to him in a soft voice. My throat aches from holding back everything I want to say, to apologize for, but I can’t. He’s too young to understand any of this, let alone why his father and I are at such odds lately.
His head rests on my arm, his eyelids fluttering as he fights sleep with the stubborn determination only a toddler can muster.
One of his small hands clutches my shirt, knuckles whitening whenever my voice slows when I think he’s falling asleep, almost as if he’s afraid I might disappear the second he lets go.
He’s been like this for days now.
Refusing naps, fighting bedtime, sometimes even waking up in a panic the moment he realizes I’m not immediately beside him and screaming for me until one of Dante’s staff comes and rouses me out of bed.
He knows instinctively that sleep means separation, that once his eyes close, I’ll be taken from him again and locked away in another room out of reach.
I hate it.
I hate that he’s learning far too young that his safety can be conditional. Being separated from him is one of the cruelest control tactics Dante has used so far. Not because it’s overtly violent or dramatic. It’s because it isn’t just punishing me. It’s punishing Luca too.
Our son deserves none of this. He didn’t choose his bloodline. He’s an innocent party in a war he doesn’t even know exists. Collateral damage in a mess built and then destroyed by men who have never had to deal with the direct consequences of their actions.
It hurts in a way that lingers long after I’m left alone in a bedroom Dante hardly ever visits. Most nights, he doesn’t even bother coming to bed. Whether he takes up residence in another guest room or in his study, I have no idea, nor do I care. To me, all of this feels unforgivable.
I turn the page slowly as his breathing finally evens out, his lashes brushing over his rosy cheeks. At least for now, I still have him. The words soon blur together, my voice dropping to little more than a murmur meant only to hold onto the moment for just a little while longer.
Then the light on Luca’s nightstand flickers.
My gaze snaps to it instantly.
It’s a small lamp, one that casts a warm, golden glow meant to soothe at night instead of keeping someone awake. I watch it pulse once… twice… the bulb struggling, dimming and brightening while it fights to stay alive. Then the room is swallowed whole by darkness.
Across the room, moonlight spills in through the open window, outlining the furniture in a soft shadow. I left it open earlier since the night air has been warm and gentle lately, figuring the scent of the sea would drift in just enough to calm Luca if he wakes up in the middle of the night again.
Now, I’m grateful for it for an entirely different reason. It’s the only thing that lets me see as I start to carefully shift out of the bed.
I reach for the lamp, planning on shaking it to get it to turn back on or maybe see if the bulb needs to be changed, but then shouting erupts in the hallway right outside the door and my entire body freezes in place instantly.
The sounds cut straight through me, voices raised in alarm rather than irritation.
Luca startles violently at the noise, his small body jerking upright off the bed beside me as fear snaps him awake.
“Mama?” he whispers into the darkness.
I turn away from the lamp without another thought and grab him, pulling him tight against my chest. One arm locks around his shoulders to anchor him to me while my other smooths over his hair again and again, a useless, soothing motion meant more for me than for him.
“I’m here. I’ve got you,” I whisper into his hair, forcing my voice to stay steady despite the tremor creeping in.
But even as I say it, dread coils tightly in my chest.
What is going on?
The shouting outside escalates, urgent voices flipping into sharp, clipped commands that snap through the halls outside, muffled only by the door sealing Luca and me safely inside this room. Then comes the sound that turns my blood to ice.
Gunfire.
The crack of it is unmistakable.
There is no time to think or for fear to bloom and render me completely frozen in place again because soon, instinct takes over completely.
I scoop Luca up and run.
His cry breaks free from his mouth the moment I do, his small hands clutching desperately at my shoulders as I bolt across the room toward the only other place with a door. The closet. I wrench it open, drag us inside, and slam it shut behind us hard enough that the frame rattles.
I drop down to my knees, my front pressed to the cool plaster inside as I curl my body around him like a shield.
Luca is sobbing now, his chest hitching violently as terror pours out of him.
Small patches of light trail in through the slats on the doors, highlighting the tears streaking down his cheeks.
“Shh, shh,” I whisper frantically, my lips pressing to his hair even as my hands shake. “Mama’s here. I’ve got you.”
Another crack of gunshots echoes through the villa, closer this time, followed by the sound of shattering glass.
I press my hand firmly over his mouth, hauling him fully into my lap to keep him from squirming, my arm tightening around his middle until he’s pinned safely against me.
His sobs turn muffled beneath my palm, hot tears soaking my skin.
“It’s okay, baby. Please, please stay quiet for Mama,” I whisper desperately into his ear.
I strain to listen over the roaring of my pulse, every sound magnified in the cramped darkness of the closet. Luca trembles against me, his small body practically convulsing with each muffled sob.
I don’t pray often.
But crouched there on the floor, hidden in the dark with my son clutched to my chest, I pray harder than I ever have in my entire life.
I don’t even know who I’m praying to. God?
Fate? Anyone who will listen to me. I whisper silent pleas between shaky breaths, bargaining promises I don’t even know how I’ll keep if they’re ever fulfilled.
There would be no reason for gunfire to erupt inside Dante’s villa unless something has gone catastrophically wrong.
His security is ruthless. Practically impenetrable.
Men are posted at every corridor and every blind spot I never even realized existed until I started to wander on the days he would avoid me.
For someone to breach the perimeter, let alone make it inside the house, means failures stacked on top of more failures.
Whatever is happening outside and whatever chaos is tearing through the halls and the grounds beyond these walls, I can only begin to guess the scale of it.
My mind spins through possibilities, each more horrifying than the last, none of them ending with Luca and me walking away from this untouched.
The only way we survive this is if Dante finds us first. But…
A realization settles in my chest. Fear seeps deeper as a traitorous whisper slithers through my thoughts before I can stop it.
What if Dante is already dead?
The thought hits like a physical blow. My grip tightens around Luca reflexively, my fingers digging into his back as if I can shield him from that kind of fate.
No.
I shake my head sharply, forcing the thought away.
I can’t afford to think like that. Not when my son’s life is hinging on his father’s survival.
Dante is many things—cruel, dangerous, capable of unimaginable violence, but he is not weak.
Whatever else I may believe about him, I know that one thing with absolute certainty.
If Dante Cosenza is still breathing, he will be fighting.
He has to be.
The bedroom door bursts open with a deafening crash, the sound splitting the air so violently that both Luca and I jolt in unison. A sharp breath catches in his throat, and I have to clamp my arm tighter around him to keep him quiet and not move an inch.
Heavy footsteps thunder into the room. Someone slams into the small table beside the door hard enough that the decorative pieces on top of it topple to the floor. They shatter on impact, porcelain exploding into sharp fragments that skitter across the marble.
Through the thin slats of the closet door, a beam of light cuts through the darkness. A flashlight sweeps across the room in slow arcs, illuminating the bed, the dresser, the walls in a methodical way.
The flashlight is lowered and two figures move into view.
Both men are dressed in black tactical gear.
Masks are pulled up over the lower halves of their faces, leaving only their eyes visible as they scan the room.
One of them carries the flashlight and the other’s hands stay close to his sides with one hand already reaching up to a bulge at his hip that looks suspiciously like the shape of a weapon.
My heart is pounding so hard, it feels like it might tear itself free of my chest.
They move deeper into the room, muttering to each other in low voices. Luca is deathly still now, fear finally overpowering his instinct to cry. His small body silently trembles against mine, his hands gripping around my wrists as his nails bite into my skin painfully.
My eyes never leave the men.
I can’t see their weapons clearly, but after the sounds outside, I know better than to believe they’re unarmed.
The taller of the two strides over to the foot of the bed and grabs the bedding in one sharp motion. He rips it off violently, sending sheets and blankets flying to the floor. Luca’s book sails through the air and lands face-down a few feet away, its bright cover stark against the stone floor.
The flashlight sweeps over the now-empty mattress.
“Where is she?” the taller man mutters, irritation creeping into his voice.
The second man turns toward him, head tilted slightly as if listening to something through an earpiece. “Intel says this is the child’s room. They should both be in here.”