6. Dante
Dante
The grinding scrape of metal on metal tears through the silence of the fourteenth floor.
The rusted cables of the service elevator snap and groan.
It is a sound that should not exist. This floor is a tomb.
The power to that shaft was cut off decades ago.
Someone bypassed the mainframe. Someone forced the car upward.
My focus narrows. I am moving before the thought even fully forms. My muscles lock. The feral, possessive haze of claiming my woman sharpens into something equally dangerous—not cold, not clinical, but precise. The guard does not replace the man. It arms him.
The monster is loose.
"Under the bed," I command. My voice is a gravel pit. Barely human.
Gemma scrambles backward on the mattress. Her dark eyes are wide. The blanket falls away from her bare shoulders. She opens her mouth to argue. Sassy to the bitter end. I do not have time for it.
"Now, Gemma."
I grab her by the hips and drag her off the mattress. I shove her onto the dusty hardwood floor. The space beneath the king-sized bed is tight. Rotted velvet dust ruffles conceal the gap. I push her under the frame until she is hidden in the darkness.
"Do not make a sound," I growl, crouching down to look into the shadows. "Do not move. Do not come out until I tell you."
She nods once. A quick, jerky movement. The scent of her skin spikes with fear.
It hits my nostrils and fuels the roaring inferno in my chest. The sudden spike of adrenaline in her scent betrays her terror.
They brought violence into her sanctuary.
They interrupted the only peace I have known in twenty years. They will die for that alone.
I stand up. I drag my jeans up my legs and yank the zipper closed.
I do not bother with a shirt. My bare chest is still slick with sweat.
The skull in dark roses on my left arm flexes as I reach for the nightstand.
I grab my Glock 19. I check the chamber.
A full magazine. One in the pipe. I reach down and pull the six-inch combat knife from my discarded boot.
Cold steel against my palm. The familiar weight of death.
The elevator screech grows louder. They are passing the eleventh floor. The dead zone. They are forcing the ancient machinery through the rusted tracks. Three floors away. Two floors.
I move through the suite without a sound.
I scan the room. The main door to the hallway.
The adjoining doors to the neighboring suites.
The shattered windows leading to a sheer drop to the Chicago streets below.
No fire escape. No secondary stairs. The only way down is the main stairwell at the end of the hall, or the elevator shaft itself.
I position myself by the oak door of the penthouse. The wood is warped. The brass hinges are tarnished. I press my ear to the cracked panel.
The elevator shudders to a halt. A resounding clang echoes through the corridor. The rusted doors pry open with a metallic shriek.
Footsteps. Tactical boots crushing the decaying carpet.
I count the treads. One. Two. Three. Four.
Four men. Bellanti foot soldiers. They do not move with the precision of trained operators.
They are clumsy. They breathe too loudly.
Their gear clinks. They think they have the element of surprise.
They think they are hunting a trapped animal.
They do not realize they stepped into the hunting ground of a starving apex monster.
This hotel is my territory. The Grand Continental is my fallback. I know every rotting floorboard. I know which shadows hold the deepest darkness. I know the blind spots. I know the layout of the interconnected suites like the veins in my own forearms.
"Check the rooms," a voice mutters in the hallway. Rough, South Side accent. "Boss says they're up here. Boss says burn the whole floor if we have to."
Boss. The Bellantis. They came for her. They came to finish the job they started at the food truck.
My jaw grinds. Teeth threatening to crack under the pressure.
A murderous heat spikes in my blood, but I ruthlessly force it down, letting cold calculation take the wheel.
Four hostiles. Armed with assault rifles.
Probably suppressed. Body armor. Night vision is unlikely.
The ambient light from the streetlamps outside provides enough illumination to navigate the hall.
I cannot let them reach the penthouse door. I cannot let them spray bullets into the room where Gemma is hiding under the bed. The drywall is too thin. The risk of a stray round finding her soft flesh is unacceptable.
I must take the fight to them. I must draw their fire away from her.
I grip the handle of the adjoining door leading to room 1402.
I twist it silently. The hinges moan slightly, but the sound is masked by the boots in the hallway.
I slip into the neighboring suite. The air is filled with dust and the smell of ancient water damage.
I move through the darkness, bypassing rotting armchairs and shattered lamps.
I reach the door leading out to the main hallway from 1402.
I press my back against the wall. I crack the door open half an inch.
The four men are moving down the corridor in a staggered formation. They are checking doors. Finding them locked or jammed. The lead man carries an M4 carbine. The others have shotguns and submachine guns. Significant firepower for a simple sweep. They expect resistance. They expect Dante Costa.
The rear guard stops. He turns his head to inspect a fallen sconce on the carpet. I blend into the darkness. The darkness of the hallway wraps around me. I do not make a sound. My bare feet glide over the sections of carpet I know are silent.
I close the distance in three long strides.
My left hand clamps over the rear guard's mouth. My arm wraps around his neck, pulling his head back sharply to expose his throat. Before he can even register the ambush, I drive the six-inch combat knife upward. Through the soft tissue beneath his jaw. Up into his brain stem. He’s dead before he hits the floor.
I spasms violently. Blood erupts over my hand. Warm, wet, metallic.
I drag his dying body backward into room 1402. I lower him to the floor without a single thud. I rip the knife free.
The scent of fresh copper fills the air. Real blood. Not the phantom copper of my father's alley. This is reality. The violence grounds me. The panic that paralyzed me in the bathroom earlier is gone. There is no borrowed trauma here. There is only the immediate, desperate need to protect my woman.
I wipe the blade on the dead man's tactical vest. One down. Three left.
The lead man stops. He holds up a fist. The formation halts.
"Where's Marco?" he hisses.
The two remaining men turn around. They see the empty hallway. They see the smear of blood on the rotting wallpaper where I dragged their comrade.
"Fuck," one of them breathes. He raises his shotgun. "He's here."
"Light it up!" the leader barks.
They open fire. Suppressed weapons cough violently. Thwip-thwip-thwip. Rounds tear through the drywall. They shred the decaying velvet drapes. They annihilate the antique mirrors lining the walls. Wood splinters explode into the air. Plaster rains down in white clouds.
I dive behind the reinforced concrete pillar inside room 1402. Bullets chew into the stone mere inches from my face. Stone fragments pepper my bare chest. Small, stinging cuts. I ignore the pain. Pain is data. Data means I am alive. Alive means Gemma is protected.
The air fills with the acrid stench of cordite.
Real cordite. It stings my eyes and burns the back of my throat.
The scent threatens to drag me backward.
The memory of Matteo’s broken voice on the phone tries to drag me backward to that rainy alley, to the helpless sixteen-year-old boy who couldn't stop the slaughter of his family.
Focus. I am not sixteen. I am thirty-six.
I am the guard. I am the executioner. My family is dead, but the woman breathing under the bed in the next room is alive. She is my responsibility, and I will burn Chicago to its foundations before I let a Bellanti bullet touch her.
I lean out from behind the concrete pillar. I raise the Glock 19. I do not aim. I point and shoot. Muscle memory born from thousands of hours on the compound training range.
Pop. Pop.
Double tap. Headshot.
The man with the shotgun jerks backward. Blood sprays from his chest. He drops the weapon and collapses against the wall, sliding down leaving a crimson streak.
Two down. Two left.
"He's in the side room!" the leader screams. He unleashes a full burst from his M4. The wall disintegrates. I hit the floor, rolling over the shattered debris. Dust chokes the air, turning the hallway into a blinding fog. Visibility drops to zero.
This is my advantage. They rely on their eyes. I rely on the layout.
I crawl forward, keeping my body flat against the floorboards. I navigate the debris field by touch. I reach the threshold of the door. The leader and the third man are advancing blindly, firing in wide arcs. They are panicked. Panic makes men predictable.
I slide the Glock across the floor into the hallway. I do not need it for this. The quarters are too close.
I explode upward from the darkness. I launch my frame directly at the third man.
I slam into him with the full force of my sprint.
The impact knocks the submachine gun from his hands.
We crash into the opposite wall. The drywall bows under our combined weight.
I do not give him a chance to recover. I drive my knee into his groin.
He doubles over with a wet gasp. I grab the back of his tactical helmet and smash his face into the oak doorframe.
Bone crunches. Cartilage shatters. He drops to the floor like a sack of dead weight.
Three down. One left.