28. Dante
Dante
The intruder closest to me dives out of the RPG’s path as the missile tears through the house with a squeal. It rips through the front door, colliding with the van parked out at the curb and arching a plume of flames toward the sky.
The explosion shatters the glass at the front of the property, a concussive boom that spurs the purebred dogs in the neighborhood into a howling frenzy. My eyes scan the room for Sara, who’s curled up behind one of the entry tables.
“Stay.” I mouth the word at her, my eyes fierce and wild as I communicate my command. At her fervent nod, a vice squeezes my ribs, but I can’t address that alarming sensation now. As long as she remains still and I keep her behind me, she’ll be safe until after I deal with this.
“What the fuck?” The guy in the ski mask who had his hands on my tesoro regains his footing, his eyes still wide with disbelief and panic.
With a roar, he lifts his semiautomatic.
It’s an impractical weapon choice in close quarters like this one, but I guess the same could be said of my rocket launcher.
The walls are bulletproof and soundproof, just like the main house next door, which means these morons might have gotten away with this little stunt if I hadn’t just blown up their fucking car.
Before he can get a shot off, I move in, arm knocking the nozzle up into the air.
While he’s distracted, I pull my knife, punching the blade up through the underside of his chin.
Behind his mask, his eyes roll, and blood fountains from his mouth.
I twist the knife for good measure and open his throat, watching impassively as he collapses into a pile at my feet.
The sound of heavy boots echoes through the halls as at least half a dozen more ski-masked men come from every corner of the house. Snatching up the bastard’s abandoned gun, I set the RPG aside and return to Sara. Taking a knee in front of her, I shield her body with my own.
She’s supposed to be protected here. We both are. I didn’t understand how much my sanctuary meant to me until someone desecrated it.
When the next assailant in the hall rushes through the kitchen doorway, I almost marvel at his textbook stance. With his rigid posture, extended arms, and body weight on the balls of his feet, he’s practically a model soldier.
Unfortunately for him, I was never much for textbooks, and when I pull the trigger, my first bullet hits him in the dick. A second bullet embeds itself in his forehead as he collapses. The men coming in behind him try to get in their own shots, but the bottleneck in the hallway works against them.
Above the din of shouting voices, I hear a familiar baritone. Trusting Gregor and the others to pick off the rest of the bastards at the other end of the house, I let my mind go blank as instinct and training take over.
Screams and garbled curses permeate the air as I wade through whoever’s brave enough to stumble into the unintentional kill box the kitchen has become. Bullets eat through flesh, baptizing the house in blood.
The minutes stretch into eternity as we wait for the last shell to hit the ground.
An eerie quiet settles over the house. A red mist fills the air, reeking of offal and metal.
I reach for Sara and find her still curled in on herself, her fist wrapped in…
pearls? She doesn’t give me time to ask any questions, her arms encircling my neck as she buries her face in my throat.
I should push her away for safety reasons, so a survivor can’t get the drop on us. Instead, I grip her hips to steady her against me. Her tears are wet on my neck, and the hand she uses to cup my cheek is clammy with her fear.
I need to get her somewhere safe before shock has a chance to set in. “Are you all right?” Her cherry scent envelops us both. She smells like the only clean thing in the room because she is.
Because of my spiked adrenaline and a mind rampant with murderous rage, I’m incapable of reassurance. I don’t know how to extract myself from this place, how to meet her with softness and care.
Then she kisses me, a tentative, reverent press of the lips that feels almost holy, and in that brief, suspended moment, she shows me the trail leading back to myself. I tug her close, remembering how it feels to be human rather than a killing machine.
I push her hood off her head. “You’re all right.” Even though it’s not a question, she nods. Relief fills me. “Good. We need to move.”
Holding the gun with one hand, I guide her cautiously through the house, maneuvering over debris and sidestepping bodies.
Someone races out of the dining room. I aim my gun and lower it again as Gregor careens to a halt at the sight of us.
The side of his head is red with blood. It looks like a bullet tore off the tip of his ear, but he’s ripe with adrenaline and doesn’t seem to notice. I shake my weapon at him, so mad I could chew gunpowder and spit bullets. “And where the fuck were you while Sara was getting shot at?”
Gregor’s brows draw down in confusion. “You texted me. Told me to head next door and offer backup. Said you would take care of Miss Boyd.”
At his guileless expression, my gun arm drops to my side. Shit. I’ll need Luca to investigate further, but someone must have hacked my number and rerouted my messages. Which confirms the mole is working under me.
I need to find this bastard before they can do any more damage.
Sara glances around as she clutches my arm. “Oh, god. Where’s—?”
A coughing Angela pokes her head out from beneath the overturned settee. “I’m here.” She winces. “Shit. I think I got glass in my ass cheek.”
“The neighbors have probably called the cops.” Gregor pushes the couch off Angela and bends to lift her into his arms. She blanches with pain, and he gentles his grip.
“Casualties?” I assess the destruction, my mood darkening further. If the secondary house looks this bad, the main one’s probably in shambles.
“Two on our side.” Gregor goes to the window and peers out, careful to keep most of his body to one side of the curtains.
“No telling how many Luca has on his end. Most of them fled after the explosion.” Gregor shoots me a look, his eyes swimming with admiration and pride, like a die-hard football fan gazing at his favorite NFL player. “By the way, Boss…very cool.”
I grunt in response. I’m not used to such praise. Papà was always stingy with it, especially with Marco.
Speaking of Marco…he enters now with Pistol, looking like he spent the last few minutes in a lounge rather than a war zone.
You can say many things about my brother, but he knows how to wear a suit.
He’s also one of the few people I trust with my dog, which is why I tasked him with taking her to the groomer.
More concern than I’m used to seeing pinches his handsome facial features. “You’re okay? You weren’t hit?”
“I was the one doing most of the hitting.”
Gregor huffs a laugh. “If that ain’t the truth.”
After subjecting me to a visual inspection, Marco holsters his gun and ruffles my hair. “Well, if you boys are done playing soldier for the evening, I have an appointment. Make that two appointments. Simultaneously. Thankfully, the two cretins I shot had the decency not to bleed on my Armani.”
With an irreverent salute, he strolls off.
Gregor’s expression seems trapped between wonder and disapproval. My brother tends to have that effect on people. In fact, I think he deliberately cultivates it.
Shaking my head, I focus on my soldier. “Find out if there are any survivors in masks and have Luca send them over to the main house.” My lip curls as a new, fresh wave of outrage rolls through my blood, and I dismiss him by jerking my chin.
“Make it quick. You and the other men need to get the fuck out of here before the cops come. We’ll get word to the ones on our payroll to run interference as much as possible, but you should still find somewhere to lie low for a couple of days. ”
Gregor nods once. “Yes, sir.” With Angela still in his arms, he heads off to pass the message on to everyone else.
Once he’s gone, I focus on Sara. My stomach twists as I meet her eyes, bracing myself for irrefutable proof in her blue gaze that this world isn’t for her.
What I find isn’t terror or disgust, though, but steadiness mixed with awe. This unexpected discovery almost causes me to stumble.
“You saved my life.” Her fingertips brush my cheek, and my eyes shut.
The warmth of her palm offers safety and relief.
I nuzzle into her, kissing her fingers and smiling when her heart-shaped face flushes pink.
“You always show up right when I need you the most. Just like you did with those college guys the first time we met. And with that man at the bazaar.”
I study her profile, the fan of her lashes, and the gentle sweep of her jaw. Fear’s dulled her cornflower blue eyes and painted dark circles beneath them. How can someone so delicate have any hope of surviving this life?
Yet, so far, survive is exactly what she’s done, with more skill than I would have given her credit for. “You were out of your depth tonight.” Her lips purse, but she doesn’t respond. “Still, you handled yourself well. You should be proud.”
I flip her hand, examining the gouges in her skin from the pearl leash. Rage boils in my veins at the sight of her blood.
I have to pause before I can speak past the lump forming in my throat. “You’re bleeding.”
Sara nods toward my upper arm, where a stray bullet hit me. “So are you.” Wincing, she runs her finger over my torn flesh. “It looks like it went clean through, but there might be a transverse laceration. We need to get you up to the—”
I sweep her up mid-lecture, my voice a low croon. “Oh, coniglietta, you know I love it when you talk medical to me.”
“What the hell are you doing? Put me down! You’re going to give yourself a grade three tear, and then you’ll never be able to lift your rocket launcher again!”
I chuckle and ignore her sweet little protests. When we reach the stairwell leading to the basement, we slip through the hidden door to the main house.
In truth, I like when she fusses over me. Considering my life is spent ensuring everyone else stays upright and breathing, it’s a rare luxury to be the one tended to. I could get used to this, though.
As we cross over into familiar terrain, she relaxes against me in that way you do when you’re returning home, and my chest tightens.
Thanks to Luca, the power is back on in the main house, and Sara and I ride up to my office on the second floor, still bickering over who needs to be treated first. She presses her hands to my wound to help stem the already-slowing bleeding.
The house is a flurry of activity on all floors. Staff race up and down the stairwell carrying medical supplies, and the radios echo through the halls as soldiers coordinate body removal before the police arrive. We have a gas-fired industrial furnace for a reason beyond the cold winter nights.
I should bring Sara to the clinic to get her hand checked out, but she seems okay, and I need her to myself for a bit.
I struggle to drag air into my frozen lungs. I was so close to losing her. Her cell, the very place she was supposed to be the safest, almost became her grave. When I consider how differently the night could have gone, my hands shake even harder.
Once upon a time, I would have hated her for making me feel this way. Now, I only hug her closer and pray that, unlike Zanni, Sara remains blind to my weakness.
Frustrated, I kick open the door and plop her onto the edge of my desk. “Even if I’m bleeding out, you come first. Now, give me your hand.”
She sticks her lower lip out in a pout but does as she’s told, presenting her hand for me to unfurl the leash. Due to how tightly she wound it, her fingertips are bloodless while her palm is red and swollen. The indentations where the chain cut her skin seep in several places.
Just an hour ago, I snapped a woman’s neck in a secret act of mercy after watching her get flayed to a bloody pulp, but it’s these small cuts on Sara’s hand that leave me rattled and unsettled. “Why do you do that to yourself?”
Sara hunches over. I don’t really expect an answer, so I’m surprised when she speaks. “I started doing it to help curb my anxiety and then couldn’t stop. It’s always worse when I’m stressed.”
“When did you start? You never did this while we were together.”
She visibly braces herself. “Five years ago.”
My chest wrenches. Five years ago. So basically, just after circumstances tore us apart.
I don’t have the bandwidth to process this right now. All I can claim with any certainty is that my previous doubts about Sara’s involvement are growing.
It’s hard to tell whether I want to yell at her or embrace her, so I concentrate on peeling the chain out of her skin, one section at a time. When she’s free, I throw the leash and chain in the trash and pull out an emergency first aid kit from the bottom drawer of my desk.
Sara studies me, her muscles bunching up as I pour alcohol on a cotton pad and swab her palm.
When I pass over the deepest wound, she winces, and I curse myself beneath my breath.
My injured arm causes some clumsiness, but I’ve been shot before, so I’m no stranger to working through pain.
This one is relatively mild, which suggests that I should be healed up in a few weeks.
Once I’ve cleansed her hand, I wrap it in gauze that I smooth out with a satisfied pat.
Sara inspects my handiwork with a thoughtful expression. “Not bad. Thank you, Dante.”
Normally, I would prioritize my need for answers over all else, but I never realized the intense satisfaction that comes with caring for someone else. Helping them heal. When she looks at me like I’ve hung the stars in the sky and named them each for her, the agony in my arm disappears.
Gripping her hips, I pull her to the edge of the desk and bend down, intent on claiming her lips. From the doorway, Luca clears his throat.
I sigh, resting my forehead against Sara’s. “When did you get here?” I’m so fucking tired of all of this.
Luca looks between the two of us before meeting my eyes.
“I just got done correlating the event history in the system. Someone used a level four administrative override code to put the primary sensors, the ones we have on all the doors, and the camera arrays into maintenance mode ten minutes before the breach. I double-checked to see if it was done digitally by a hacker, but it was a clean software kill.”
I curse under my breath. “Perfect.”
Luca stops my impending rant. “However, the fucker didn’t account for the redundant analog tripwires on the secondary loop we installed a few weeks ago. That’s how we caught the trigger.”
My fingers tighten on Sara’s hips.
She squirms beneath my hold. “But the level four override can only be initiated from the hardwired terminal in the security room. Which means…”
I nod grimly. “The call is coming from inside the house.”