13. Attack
Chapter thirteen
Attack
(Danica)
My breath fogs in the cold air as we move like ghosts through the shadows, a lethal procession of nearly thirty armed men—and me.
The weight of my weapons feels foreign against my body, a constant reminder that I'm not the same woman I was before I met Dante.
Emilio's whispered "Good luck" still rings in my ears as he settled into the getaway car earlier, his face dark, focused. Like all of us, he knows what's at stake.
My muscles ache with exhaustion, protesting with every careful step. The Kevlar vest beneath my black tactical gear seems to grow heavier by the minute. But I force my breathing to remain steady, my movements precise. I won't be the weak link. Not today.
There's a bitter irony in how familiar this feels—the black boots, the face mask, the anticipation of violence humming in the air. But last time, I was desperate to save Dante, to free my kidnapped love. Now, we hunt together, equals in the darkness.
When he'd seen me gear up earlier tonight, his eyes had met mine with quiet understanding. No arguments, no protests—just a nod that carried the weight of trust.
The 2 AM wake-up call feels like a lifetime ago. The briefing blurs in my memory, lost in a haze of caffeine and adrenaline that makes my heart race and my hands tremble slightly.
I flex my bare fingers, trying to work warmth back into joints stiff from the spring chill. The cold bites through my tactical gear, but gloves would only slow my trigger response.
Dante moves ahead of me like a shadow given form, his movements fluid with years of experience.
I'd know his silhouette anywhere—the set of his shoulders, the precise way he places each foot.
He glances back occasionally, his eyes finding mine in the darkness.
There's no tenderness there now, no trace of my husband-to-be. This is Don Fera, and we're at war.
Part of me worries about him. He looked so exhausted yesterday, his body so tender. I couldn’t help but notice that flash of pain clouding his face whenever he thought I wasn’t looking.
But I didn’t say anything, just held him closer as we pressed our naked bodies together.
We fucked up those sheets for good. Missus Nell might have to burn the blood-stained linen, but it sure didn’t stop Dante from entering me with zealousness, his spent cock dark red and sticky afterward—just like the sheets.
Oh god, what a way to wake up. I forgot how much more sensitive I became on my period. How intense sex felt when my hormones were all over the place. I was damn near feral!
For so long, I avoided Dante on those days. But not anymore…
Focus, Danica! I force the distraction from my mind.
This is no time for lustful thoughts.
This is life or death. (And not the little death, la petite mort.)
The port gates loom ahead, harsh security lights creating pools of artificial day against the dark grey sky.
My arsenal feels simultaneously reassuring and insufficient—two holstered guns, one in my hand, a knife strapped to my calf.
Yet something gnaws at the edges of my consciousness, a creeping unease I can't shake.
We press ourselves against the cold brick of a warehouse just outside the gates. The concrete scrapes against my back through the tactical gear as I try to steady my breathing.
4:57 AM.
Our contact should be cutting the power soon.
My fingers tighten around my gun as doubt whispers through my mind. Disabling an entire port's electrical system isn't like flipping a switch—there are redundancies, backup generators. So many things that could go wrong.
But we're out of options. Every day we wait, the Volkovs chip away at everything we’ve built.
Yesterday, when lying in bed, as Dante explained the history of this conflict, our plan seemed more straightforward, simple almost. Clinical.
Now, with dawn approaching and so many lives hanging in the balance, nothing feels simple at all.
I catch Dante's eye in the darkness. For just a moment, I see my darling boy there—the man who held me through my orgasm, who promised to love me until the end of time.
Then he nods once, sharp and professional, and Don Fera returns.
I straighten my spine, squaring my shoulders.
I might be a suburban girl playing at war, but I'm also the future La Donna Fera. And today, we're going to make the Russians regret ever thinking they could touch what's ours.
What is taking so long?
5:12 AM.
Four delivery trucks lumber toward the harbor, their diesel engines cutting through the pre-dawn silence.
My legs tremble from maintaining the crouch position, muscles screaming in protest, but I force myself to remain still. Waiting. Watching.
The restlessness is unmistakable in my bones. We should’ve been inside by now, but the glaring lights still angrily illuminate the space around us, trapping us in the shadows.
The third truck is still being inspected when darkness crashes over us at 5:28.
One moment, harsh security lights bleach the world white, the next, we're plunged into night.
Finally!
We move like a dark tide across the concrete, dozens of shadows flowing as one.
My heartbeat drowns out everything except the scrape of boots and the controlled breathing of the men around me.
The first Russian guards go down silently, efficiently. Our silencers make wet clicking sounds—nothing like movies, more like muffled coughs.
The smell hits me first: copper and cordite, that distinct mixture that means death. A body crumples near my feet, and I force my eyes forward. Don't look at faces. Don't count the fallen. Just move.
This morning's briefing runs through my head on a loop—Dante's voice steady and sure as his finger traced our path on the blueprints. The boss's office was circled in red marker, our target clear.
But now, in the grey space between night and dawn, nothing makes sense.
The buildings are wrong, the distances distorted. It's like trying to match a child's drawing to the Mona Lisa.
The first hint something's wrong is a soft pop to my left.
Then, the world goes white.
Smoke billows up from out of nowhere, thick and chemical. It claws down my throat, burns my eyes until tears stream down my face. Through the chaos, I hear Dante's voice: "Via! Via! Via!" But the thick smoke turns sound strange. Makes it impossible to tell direction.
Panic rises like bile as I stumble forward blindly. My training screams at me to stay still, but instinct drives me toward where I think the main building should be. Every step feels wrong.
The blueprint in my head shatters like glass as the realization hits: We've been played. It was a setup.
My foot catches on something soft. I know what it is before I look down. One of ours, face-down on the asphalt. Dark hair, broad shoulders—for one horrifying moment, I think it's Dante. The relief when I realize it's not makes me hate myself a little.
The concrete tears at my palms and knees as I crawl forward. The smoke is starting to thin, but what it reveals makes my blood freeze.
Dark figures emerge from the shadows, too many to count. Their weapons gleam dully in the pre-dawn light. Russians. We're surrounded.
The building ahead promises at least some cover. I get up and sprint the last few yards, lungs burning, fingers grasping for the door handle.
Pull.
Nothing happens.
Again.
Still locked.
"Danica!"
Dante's voice carries a note I've never heard before—pure primal fear. I start to turn—too slow, too late.
The Russian asshole’s fingers bite into my shirt, lifting me like I weigh nothing.
He's massive—one of those men built like a brick wall, all muscle and menace. A scar runs from his left eye to his jaw, twisting his features into a permanent sneer.
Vodka and cigarettes are thick on his breath as he pulls me close, his pale eyes as icy as a Siberian winter.
Something cold and sharp presses against my ribs, and time fragments into crystal-clear moments stretched out in slow motion. It’s a blade and it’s somehow found its way to the soft flesh unprotected by my vest.
Dante appears through the thinning smoke, running toward us. But he's too far—might as well be miles away.
My trainer’s voice fills my head, clear as if he were beside me: "Use their size against them, piccola. Bigger they are, harder they fall."
Months of training, of being thrown around the gym mat, of learning to turn disadvantage into opportunity—it all comes down to this moment.
I stop fighting the grip on his trunk-like arm. Instead, I go loose, letting my weight drop suddenly. The unexpected shift pulls him forward slightly.
My knee drives up, finding its target with brutal precision.
His grip loosens—just a fraction, just enough.
A string of Russian curses spills from his chapped lips as he tries to regain control.
He’s quick, despite his size. The blade catches me as I twist away, tearing through fabric and flesh along my stomach
White-hot pain blooms across my side. Blood immediately begins soaking my shirt, but there's no time to check how bad it is.
Dante reaches us like an avenging angel. His movements are pure predator—no hesitation, no mercy. The knife in his hand disappears into the Russian perp’s thick throat. Arterial spray arcs through the air, dyeing the grey morning crimson.
The giant makes a wet sound as he falls, those ice-blue eyes widening in surprise before going blank.
"Retreat! Retreat!" Dante's voice carries over the chaos, the command cutting through the gunfire and shouts.
His hand finds mine, pulling me close. I can feel his heart hammering against my back as he shields me with his body. He doesn’t ask me if I’m okay; the answer won’t change the fact that we need to get out of here and soon.
Around us, our plan dissolves into chaos. We're surrounded, outnumbered, betrayed. The exit seems miles away, every step between here and safety promising more blood.
We need to move. Now.
My side burns with each breath, blood warm against my skin, but survival comes first. Pain can wait.
Step one is getting out of this trap alive.
“Run, Danica!” Don Fera urges, and I beeline toward the exit with everything I have.
The weight of unseen eyes bears down on us, the threat of bullets in our backs very real. But we don’t slow down, don’t look back.
Emilio's van idles by the truck-blocked gate, our exit-strategy in matte-black steel.
We dive in as shots pepper the air around us. I stumble, almost lose my footing, but Dante grabs me in time, pulls me inside.
The van peels away before the doors even close, carrying us from the trap we walked right into. Fucking hell.
Wordlessly, I reach for Dante, pressing my ear to his heaving chest as our bodies try to find a regular rhythm of breathing again. I’m so glad he’s here. Beside me. Alive. But we’re far from safe.
Behind us, more black vans are filling up with defeated, bleeding men in black as we retreat.
We won’t know the extent of the loss until later.
As the sun rises higher in the sky, the adrenaline begins to fade, replaced by the bitter taste of failure and betrayal.
My gut feeling had been right—I should have listened.
But there's no time for regret now.
Somewhere in the growing light, our enemies are celebrating their victory.
They won't be celebrating for long.
Mark my words.
Fuckers.