17. Chapter Fifteen #2
"Over there!" Romano shouts, directing my attention to two more figures approaching from the ruins' southern edge.
What happens next unfolds with the clarity that combat always brings me. I'm in the zone, time slowing all the way down, my every sense heightening, each movement I make sure and precise with death the only price to pay if I fuck up.
Three more attackers emerge from different directions. This is all too coordinated for chance. Too aggressive for mere surveillance.
This is an elimination attempt.
I push Francesca lower behind the wall, positioning my body to completely shield hers as bullets chip away at our ancient cover.
"Dante!"
"Stay low! I'd rather die than let them touch you," I tell her, the words emerging without conscious thought, raw truth in the face of mortal danger.
Her eyes widen, something shifting in their depths. But there's no time to analyze this revelation right now.
I return fire methodically, each shot finding its target with the precision born from years of violence. One attacker falls beside a column, another crumples near what Francesca thinks was once a public fountain.
Romano handles the third, but two more advance from different angles, threatening to outflank our position.
"Alright, listen. When I move, you run for that archway," I instruct Francesca, indicating a covered passage that leads toward the parking area. "Don't stop. Don't look back."
She grips my arm, face determined despite the danger. "I'm not leaving you."
"This isn't a negotiation," I growl, checking my ammunition. "You run. Now ."
I surge upward, firing rapidly to provide cover as she dashes toward the archway. But one attacker has circled behind, emerging directly in her path with weapon raised.
Time fucking stops .
All I see is the gun aimed at Francesca's heart.
All I feel is pure, undiluted rage.
I sprint across the distance in impossible time, spear tackling my body into the attacker with enough force to shatter his fucking ribs. We crash into ancient stone, his weapon skittering across the ground.
His eyes widen with recognition as I fumble my way so I'm sitting heavy on his chest, pressing my gun beneath his chin with brutal force.
"Who sent you?!" I demand, pressing the barrel harder against his flesh.
His laugh is wet, blood already speckling his lips from internal injuries.
"The true Ravelli!" he spits at me. "The one who sits on the throne while you play happy homes in the countryside."
The bastard beneath me fights back with unexpected strength, bucking his hips and throwing me off balance. His elbow connects with my jaw, pain exploding across my face as I stumble backward.
I regain my footing and fire, but he's already rolling away. The bullet strikes stone, sending fragments flying.
"You're not as good as they say," he taunts, blood staining his teeth. "The great Dante Ravelli, hiding in his mother's villa like a coward."
My finger tightens on the trigger, rage burning through my veins. But before I can take the shot, movement catches my eye.
Francesca.
She's emerged from her cover, likely drawn by the sound of our struggle. Her eyes meet mine across the ruins, and in that split second of distraction, I see the attacker's hand move to his shirt.
The blade appears in his grip. A ceramic knife, the kind designed to slip past metal detectors.
He lunges toward Francesca with deadly intent, the knife aimed at her throat.
"No! Francesca!"
I don't hesitate.
And this time, my aim is fucking perfect.
The bullet enters through his eye, exiting in a spray of blood that splatters across ancient stone. His body crumples, blade falling uselessly from lifeless fingers.
Silence descends, broken only by Francesca's shaky breathing and the distant call of birds who have witnessed centuries of human violence in this place.
I turn to her, scanning for injuries, for trauma, for shock.
Instead, I find her staring at the dead man, then at me, something unreadable in her expression.
"You killed him," she says quietly.
"He was going to hurt you," I reply simply, holstering my weapon. No explanations. No apologies. "I would kill anyone who threatened what's mine."
Her eyes meet mine. "Are you alright?"
The question catches me off-guard. I've just killed a man before her eyes. Yet her concern is for me.
"I'm fine," I answer automatically. Then notice the warm wetness on my knuckles, the sting I'd ignored during combat. Glass has cut my hand open, blood flowing freely down my wrist.
Romano approaches, confirming the area is secure. "The others have fled, signore. But we should leave immediately."
I nod, already taking the next steps, processing the implications of this attack while pushing aside the physical pain.
Back at the villa, Francesca insists on treating my hand herself, dismissing Maria's offers of assistance. She works with efficiency, cleaning glass fragments from the wound, applying antiseptic that stings like fire.
"You've done this before," I observe as she wraps clean bandages around my knuckles.
"My father believed basic medical training was essential," she explains, securing the bandage with gentle fingers. "In our world, hospitals ask too many questions. It was easier to train me."
I flex my hand, testing her handiwork. "It's good. Almost like a professional did it."
"Thank you." She hesitates, eyes on my wounded hand. "No one's ever tended your wounds before, have they?"
Her fingers drift to my other hand, the one missing its ring finger. The scarred stump where I cut it off to send my message. Her touch is feather-light as she traces the healed wound.
"I know you did this for me," she whispers.
My throat tightens. "I did it to claim you. Not for you. To show my brother I would take what's mine, no matter the cost."
She lifts my hand to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to the scar tissue. The gesture hits me hard. No one has ever touched me there, let alone with such... tenderness.
"Was it worth it?" Her amber eyes search mine. "Mutilating yourself just to make a point?"
"Yes." The word comes out rough. Raw. I curl my remaining fingers around her chin. "I would cut off every finger, spill rivers of blood, burn cities to ash to have you. To keep you."
She shivers but doesn't pull away. "You're a monster."
"I'm a Ravelli." I brush my thumb across her lower lip. "Your monster. And I think… you're starting to like it."
"Maybe." Her teeth graze my thumb. "Or maybe I'm just learning to be a monster too."
The admission sends heat coursing through me. This woman, this queen I've claimed, understands the darkness inside me.
More than that… she welcomes it.
My phone buzzes on the table between us. Sophia's update from London on the Vatican Bank accounts we've been working to secure more tightly. The message is brief, but fucking devastating: Access has been denied. Your accounts frozen and all contact lost. Advise the next move accordingly?
Fuck.
In one stroke, we've lost control of financial channels worth millions. Channels that were essential to my plan. Channels where money from drugs and weapons could flow freely for years, undetected and uncompromised.
Francesca reads my expression with unsettling accuracy. "Bad news?"
I stand abruptly, emotional walls slamming back into place. "Business setback. Nothing important."
"Dante—"
"I need to work," I cut her off. Fuck. I need distance from her perceptive eyes, from the confusion she creates in me. "I'll be in the study. Don't wait up."
As I stride from the room, I feel her gaze on my back. She's disappointed, understanding, and somehow still accepting all at the same time.
It should comfort me.
Instead, it terrifies me.
Because for the first time in my life, I'm facing the possibility that my father might have been right: perhaps I'm not cut out for the throne after all.
Perhaps I'm simply the monster he always claimed I was. Effective in violence, shooting a man dead without a care in the world, but at the end of the day, completely incapable of the strategic restraint true power requires.
And perhaps most terrifying of all is the realization that I'm starting to care about how Francesca sees me. Whether she witnesses the monster, or the man I might have become in a different life.
A man worthy of the tenderness in her eyes when she bound my wounds.
A man who might deserve more than blood and power.
A man who might, someday… deserve her.