Chapter 6: The Enemy's Whisper

The bell chimed a third time. Dante’s jaw tightened, the muscle ticking beneath the bruise blooming on his cheek. He reached for the gun tucked into the waistband of his trousers, his movements fluid despite the blood seeping through the bandage on his shoulder.

“Stay behind me,” he ordered, his voice a low rasp that left no room for argument.

But I didn’t move. My legs felt rooted to the marble floor, my heart slamming against my ribs. The vow I’d made in silence just moments ago—*I will not go*—sang through my veins like a promise I couldn’t break.

Dante took a step toward the door, and I followed, my bare feet silent on the cold stone. He shot me a look, fury and something softer warring in his eyes. But there was no time to argue.

He pulled the door open.

The man standing on the threshold was not one of Dante’s soldiers. I knew that immediately. He was tall, lean, dressed in an impeccable charcoal suit that looked tailored to the millimeter. His hair was silver at the temples, his face handsome in a way that had probably once been devastating but was now sharpened by cruelty. He smiled, and it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Dante,” he said, the name rolling off his tongue like a curse. “You look well. Considering.”

Dante’s hand tightened on his gun, but he didn’t raise it. “Vincenzo.”

The name hit me like a slap. *Vincenzo.* I’d heard it whispered in the halls of the estate, always in hushed tones, always with a shadow of fear. He was the man who had tried to take Dante’s territory three years ago. The man who had killed Dante’s father.

And he was standing in our doorway, smiling.

“May I come in?” Vincenzo asked, his gaze flickering to me with an interest that made my skin crawl. “I’ve heard so much about your… guest.”

Dante shifted, blocking his view of me. “You have five minutes. Then I’ll have your body dumped in the harbor.”

Vincenzo chuckled, stepping past Dante as if he’d been invited. He walked into the foyer, his eyes sweeping over the space with the casual arrogance of someone who had nothing to fear. “Still the same drama. I appreciate that about you, Dante. You’re predictable.”

My pulse hammered. This was wrong. All wrong. Why would Dante even let him in? Why hadn’t he pulled the trigger?

And then I saw it—the slight tremble in Dante’s hand, the way his breathing had gone shallow. He wasn’t letting Vincenzo in. He was stalling. Because his shoulder was bleeding through, because he was weaker than he looked, and he knew if it came to a fight, he might not win.

Vincenzo turned to me, his smile widening. “You must be Liora. I’ve heard so much about you. The woman who tamed the beast.” He laughed, a cold, empty sound. “Or so they say. I’m not sure I believe it.”

“What do you want, Vincenzo?” Dante’s voice was steel, but I could hear the strain underneath.

Vincenzo ignored him, stepping closer to me. I backed up until my spine hit the wall, my hands flat against the cold surface. He stopped a foot away, close enough that I could smell his cologne—something expensive and cloying, like rotting flowers.

“I want to offer your little bride a deal,” he said, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’m a generous man, Liora. I believe in choices. And I think you deserve one.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Dante growled, but he didn’t move. His eyes were locked on Vincenzo’s back, and I could see the calculation in them—the wrong move could cost him everything.

Vincenzo reached into his pocket, and my breath caught. But instead of a weapon, he pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. He pressed it into my palm, his fingers lingering a moment too long.

“That’s a number. A safe house. A way out.” His voice dropped, intimate and conspiratorial. “I know what Dante does to the women he keeps. I know the truth behind those pretty vows he makes. If you help me finish him, I’ll give you more than escape, Liora. I’ll give you a life.”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Dante said, and this time he moved. He grabbed Vincenzo by the collar, yanking him back, but the action cost him. I saw the wince, the way his shoulder twisted, the fresh bloom of red on his bandage.

Vincenzo didn’t resist. He just smiled, straightening his suit jacket as Dante released him. “Think about it, darling. You have my number. Use it before it’s too late.”

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

The silence that followed was deafening. I looked down at the paper in my hand, the numbers scrawled in elegant handwriting. My fingers curled around it, crushing it.

Dante turned to face me, his face pale, his eyes burning. “Give me the paper.”

I shook my head. “Dante, I’m not—I would never—”

“Give it to me.”

“I’m not going to betray you,” I said, the words tumbling out. “I don’t know what that man thinks he knows, but I’m not going anywhere. I made a vow.”

Dante’s expression softened, just for a fraction of a second, before the mask slid back into place. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You don’t know what I’ve done. What I’m capable of.”

“I know,” I said, stepping closer. “But I also know what you did on that doorstep. You told me to go. To lock the door. And I didn’t. I’m still here.”

Dante’s breath hitched. He reached for me, his hand cupping my jaw, his thumb brushing across my cheek. “Liora…”

And then he swayed. I caught him, the weight of him nearly pulling us both to the floor. His eyes were glassy, his skin clammy.

“Dante? Dante!”

He didn’t answer. His head lolled forward, his body going limp.

I screamed for help, my voice echoing through the empty halls. But as the sound died, I felt it—the sharp edge of the paper still clutched in my hand.

Vincenzo’s number.

And in the chaos of Dante’s collapse, I didn’t drop it.

I tucked it into my pocket.