Chapter 7 - Dante
"You won't have to," I assure her. "But for now, you need rest. It's been a long night."
Elena stands by the window, city lights creating a halo effect around her silhouette.
Even disheveled from the fight, with her dress slightly torn at the shoulder and a smudge of something dark—blood or dirt—across her cheekbone, she's striking.
Not in the polished, manufactured way I'm accustomed to in women who orbit my world, but in a raw, unfiltered manner that makes it difficult to look away.
Her dark hair has come partially loose from its elegant arrangement, a wayward curl falling across her forehead that she absently pushes back with paint-stained fingers. Those hands—artist's hands—now slightly bruised at the knuckles from her improvised defense.
The contradiction fascinates me: those same delicate fingers that likely spent hours arranging perfect gallery lighting didn't hesitate to swing a purse at an armed attacker.
She catches me watching her and straightens her spine. The movement highlights the elegant curve of her neck, the proud set of her shoulders beneath the black fabric of her dress.
"I should call Mia," she says, breaking the silence. "Let her know I won't be in early tomorrow."
I nod, about to respond when the security panel near the elevator chimes. Elena tenses immediately, eyes darting to the entrance.
"It's alright," I reassure her, moving to the panel. A quick check of the camera feed shows Franco's impassive face. "My right hand."
I unlock the elevator with my fingerprint, and moments later, Franco steps into the penthouse.
As always, he's impeccably dressed in a dark suit despite the late hour, black leather gloves covering his hands.
His eyes scan the room, assessing potential threats before settling on Elena with subtle curiosity.
"Boss," he acknowledges me with a nod. "Raphael called. Told me everything."
"Good," I respond. "Any developments?"
Franco's gaze flicks briefly to Elena, a silent question about speaking freely in front of her.
"She stays," I clarify. "This concerns her directly."
He gives a short nod. "We've identified the bodies. Definitely Moretti's crew, just as you suspected. Lower-level muscle, nothing special."
I notice Elena flinch at the casual mention of bodies. She's still processing the reality of our world, still adjusting to the bluntness with which we discuss violence.
"And Moretti?" I ask.
"Still at the Continental Hotel. Our people are watching him." Franco removes his gloves, revealing scarred knuckles, evidence of a lifetime of dirty work. "He's meeting with the other Russian, Petrov, in the morning."
"Fucking perfect," I mutter. "Another alliance Marco's actions have pushed into being."
Franco glances at Elena again. "Speaking of Rossi, he's been making calls. Lots of calls. Word is he's looking for his sister."
Elena straightens. "Marco knows I'm missing already? But it's only been an hour since—"
"Your brother has eyes everywhere," I explain. "Someone likely reported the altercation outside your building."
"Shit," she whispers, the profanity sounding strangely delicate in her cultured voice. "He'll think—"
"That I've taken you," I finish for her. "Which, technically, is true."
Franco raises an eyebrow at this exchange but doesn't comment.
"I need to call him," Elena insists, reaching for her purse. "Before he does something stupid."
"I'll handle it," I say, my tone making it clear this isn't up for debate. "Franco, you'll stay here tonight. Full security protocol."
Franco doesn't question the order, though I can tell he's intrigued by my protective stance toward Elena. In fifteen years, he's never seen me bring a woman to my actual residence, let alone assign personal security to one.
"Yes, boss. I'll take first watch. Raphael will relieve me at dawn." He moves toward the security panel, checking the building's surveillance feeds.
"No," I correct him. "You both stay. Double coverage until further notice."
This does prompt a reaction, a brief widening of his eyes, quickly controlled. "Understood."
Elena watches this exchange with a furrowed brow. "Isn't that excessive? Surely your penthouse is secure enough without armed guards."
Franco actually chuckles at this, the sound rough from years of cigarettes.
"Ms. Rossi, you've just been targeted by Russian hitmen because of your brother's fuckups. 'Excessive' left the building about three dead bodies ago."
"Franco," I warn, though there's no real heat in it. He's the only one in my organization who can speak this freely without consequence. He's earned that right a thousand times over, starting when he took a bullet meant for my father years ago.
"Sorry, boss." He doesn't sound particularly apologetic. "Just stating facts."
Elena looks between us, curiosity momentarily overriding her anxiety. "How long have you two worked together?"
"Too fucking long," Franco replies before I can answer. "I was changing his diapers back when—"
"That's enough," I cut him off, though I'm fighting a rare smile. "Check the perimeter, then report back."
Franco nods, throwing Elena a look that might almost be friendly before disappearing down the hallway toward the security room.
When we're alone again, Elena glances at me with new interest. "He seems... comfortable with you."
"Franco has been with my family since before I was born," I explain, moving to pour myself another drink. "He's earned certain liberties."
"I can imagine," she says softly. "I'm sorry about all this. About Marco. About dragging you into whatever mess he's created."
The apology surprises me. "You have nothing to apologize for."
"He's my brother," she says simply, as if this explains everything. Perhaps, to her, it does.
"We don't choose our blood," I tell her, handing her a fresh glass. "Only how we respond to its obligations."
She takes the drink. "Have you always wanted this?" she asks suddenly. "This life?"
The question catches me off guard. Few people have ever asked about my desires, my choices. Most assume I simply inherited my position and embraced it without question.
"No," I admit, surprising myself with my honesty. "As a child, I wanted to be an architect."
"Really?" She seems genuinely interested, moving to sit on one of the leather sofas, tucking her legs beneath her. The movement causes her dress to ride up slightly, revealing the curve of her thighs.
I force my gaze back to her face. "I was fascinated by buildings, by creating spaces that would outlast me. I used to sketch designs when I was supposed to be studying my father's ledgers."
"What happened?" she asks, taking a sip of her drink.
"Reality," I say simply, sitting across from her. "My father was shot when I was seventeen. Not killed but badly injured. Leadership fell to me while he recovered."
"At seventeen?" Her eyes widen. "That's so young."
"In our world, you grow up quickly or you don't grow up at all." I lean back, memories surfacing that I rarely allow myself to revisit. "By the time my father recovered enough to resume control, I'd already made changes to the organization. Modernized operations, eliminated certain... liabilities."
"You mean people," she clarifies, no judgment in her tone, just clarity.
"Yes," I don't bother denying it. "People who thought a teenager would be easy to manipulate. People who saw my father's injury as an opportunity to seize power."
"And you killed them." It's not a question.
"I made examples of them," I correct her. "In our world, reputation is currency. Respect is built on fear as much as loyalty. I couldn't afford to be seen as weak, not at that age."
She's silent for a moment, absorbing this. "And architecture?"
I smile slightly at her persistence. "By the time I was twenty, the only buildings I was designing were front operations and security protocols. Some dreams don't survive contact with reality."
"That's sad," she says simply.
"It's life," I counter. "We adapt or we perish. You've done the same, in your way."
"Me?" She looks genuinely puzzled.
"Your gallery," I explain. "You could have taken the easy path, and used your family's money, your brother's connections. Instead, you chose the harder road because it aligned with your principles."
She considers this. "I never thought of it that way. As a choice between survival and principles."
"All choices come down to that, eventually," I tell her. "What we're willing to compromise to continue existing."
Franco returns before she can respond, his expression grave. "Boss, I need a word."
I excuse myself, following Franco to the security room at the far end of the penthouse. Multiple monitors display feeds from cameras positioned throughout the building and surrounding streets.
"Rossi's men are moving," Franco says without preamble, pointing to a screen showing three black SUVs pulling up outside my building. "Eight men, heavily armed. They're not being subtle."
"Fucking idiot," I mutter, watching Marco's soldiers exit the vehicles. "He's going to get them all killed."
"Want me to deploy a team?"
I consider our options. A direct confrontation would escalate the situation beyond repair, possibly triggering the very war I'm trying to avoid. But allowing Marco's men to attempt a breach of my security would be perceived as weakness.
"No," I decide. "I'll call him directly. Show him we have nothing to hide."
I take out my phone, scrolling to Marco Rossi's private number—a line few people possess. He answers on the second ring.
"Where the fuck is my sister?" he demands without greeting, voice tight with barely controlled rage.
"She's safe," I reply calmly. "Which is more than I can say for your men currently preparing to assault my building."
A brief silence. "You took her."
"I protected her," I correct him. "After your business associates decided to send you a message by attacking her outside her home."
"What are you talking about?" The genuine confusion in his voice is interesting. Either he's an excellent actor, or he truly doesn't know about Moretti's move.
"Your new Russian friends," I elaborate. "Four of them tried to grab Elena tonight. They mentioned sending you a message about stepping on toes."
"Moretti," Marco mutters, comprehension dawning. "Those fucking—" He cuts himself off. "Put my sister on the phone. Now."
"Of course." I return to the living room, where Elena sits exactly as I left her, though her posture is more tense. "Your brother," I say, offering her the phone. "He has men outside the building. It would be helpful if you could assure him you're here voluntarily."
She takes the phone.
"Marco? Yes, I'm fine. No, he didn't… Marco, listen to me." Her voice sharpens with authority I haven't heard from her before. "Four men attacked us outside my apartment. They said they were sending you a message. Dante protected me."
She listens for a moment, clenching her left fist. "I don't care what you think is best. I'm staying here tonight where it's safe." Another pause. "Because I choose to, that's why. For once in your life, respect that I can make my own decisions."