Chapter 6: The Devil You Know

The first shot shattered the chandelier above us.

Crystal rained down like jagged tears as Dante yanked me behind the marble column, his body a shield between me and the doorway where the Russian soldier had stood. The man was already dead—a single bullet from Dante’s gun had found his forehead before he could squeeze his trigger—but more were coming. I could hear them, boots pounding through the marble hallways of the compound like a drumbeat of approaching doom.

“Stay behind me,” Dante commanded, his voice stripped of its usual cool control. “No matter what happens, you don’t run. You don’t move unless I tell you.”

“Dante—”

“Promise me, Alessia.”

His dark eyes burned into mine, and I saw it again—that flicker of fear he’d tried so hard to hide. Not for his own life. For mine. Something cracked open in my chest, something dangerous and tender that I couldn’t afford to feel right now.

“I promise,” I whispered.

He nodded once, then spun around the column, firing twice in rapid succession. Two more bodies hit the floor.

The compound had become a warzone. Men in black tactical gear swarmed through the corridors, their Russian insignias visible even in the chaos. Dante’s soldiers fought back with brutal efficiency, but they were outnumbered. I caught glimpses of blood, of fallen bodies, of Marco dragging a wounded man behind a reinforced door.

“Where’s the exit?” I heard myself ask, my voice strangely calm.

“There isn’t one.” Dante pulled me through a side passage, his grip bruising on my wrist. “Not anymore. They’ve surrounded the entire perimeter.”

“Then what do we do?”

He didn’t answer. He just kept moving, navigating the maze of the compound with the precision of a man who’d built it himself. Which he had. Every hallway, every hidden door, every escape route—Dante knew them all.

But so did someone else.

We rounded a corner and stopped dead.

Viktor Volkov stood at the end of the corridor, flanked by a dozen armed men. His smile was a slash of white against his weathered face, and his eyes—cold, calculating, utterly devoid of mercy—fixed on me.

“Alessia,” he said, spreading his arms wide like a father welcoming a wayward child. “There you are. I’ve been so worried.”

Dante stepped in front of me, his gun raised. “You’re a dead man, Volkov.”

“Am I?” Viktor chuckled, utterly unbothered. “I have twelve men behind me and at least twenty more securing the rest of your little fortress. You have one gun and a woman who doesn’t belong to you.” His gaze slid past Dante to land on me. “She never belonged to you, Moretti. She was promised to my son.”

“Your son is dead,” Dante said flatly.

“Because of you.” Viktor’s smile vanished. “But I’m not here for revenge. Not tonight. I’m here for what’s mine.”

He snapped his fingers, and the men behind him surged forward.

What happened next was a blur of violence and motion. Dante fired, dropped two men, then used the last bullet to take out a third before tossing the empty gun aside. He fought like a man possessed—fists, elbows, knees, anything he could use as a weapon. But there were too many. They swarmed him, dragged him down, and I watched in horror as a Russian soldier pressed a gun to his temple.

“Stop!” I screamed. “Stop, please!”

Viktor raised his hand, and the chaos froze.

Dante was on his knees, blood streaming from a cut above his eye, his arms pinned behind his back by two soldiers. But his eyes found mine, and even now, even with a gun to his head, he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world worth saving.

“There she is,” Viktor murmured, walking toward me with slow, deliberate steps. “The little bride who ran away. Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused, Alessia? How many men I’ve had to kill just to find you?”

I couldn’t move. My feet were rooted to the floor, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.

“Come with me,” Viktor said, extending his hand. “Come willingly, and I’ll let Moretti live. You have my word.”

“Your word means nothing,” Dante snarled, earning a vicious blow to the stomach from one of his captors.

“Dante!” I lunged forward, but Viktor caught my arm, his grip like iron.

“Choose, Alessia.” His voice was soft, almost kind. “Him or me. One of us dies tonight. You decide which.”

The world narrowed to a single point—Dante’s eyes, dark and desperate, silently begging me to run. To save myself. But how could I? How could I leave him to die when every fiber of my being screamed that he was the only person in this godforsaken world who’d ever truly seen me?

“Don’t,” Dante rasped. “Don’t you dare, Alessia.”

I looked at Viktor. At his outstretched hand. At the promise of safety, of freedom from this life of blood and violence. He’d let Dante live. He’d said so.

But as I reached for his hand, something caught my eye—a flicker of movement behind Viktor’s men. A shadow. A figure.

My breath caught in my throat.

Luca stepped out of the darkness, a gun in each hand, and met my eyes.

He mouthed one word: *Now.*

I didn’t hesitate.

I slammed my elbow into Viktor’s throat and dropped to the floor just as Luca opened fire.

The corridor erupted into chaos—gunshots, screams, the wet thud of bodies hitting marble. I crawled toward Dante, who’d used the distraction to break free of his captors and was fighting with renewed fury. His hand found mine, his fingers intertwining with my own, and he pulled me to my feet.

“Run,” he breathed.

We ran.

Behind us, Viktor roared with rage, and the sound of pursuit was immediate. We sprinted through the compound, Dante’s grip on my hand the only thing keeping me tethered to reality. Bullets whizzed past us, embedding themselves in walls, shattering vases, destroying everything in their path.

We burst through a door and into the night air, the cool wind a shock against my heated skin. Dante’s car was parked fifty feet away. Fifty feet of open ground with no cover.

“Go!” he shouted, pushing me ahead of him.

I ran. I ran like I’d never run before, my lungs burning, my legs screaming, the sound of gunfire a terrible symphony behind me. I reached the car, yanked open the door, and turned to pull Dante inside.

But he wasn’t there.

He was on the ground, twenty feet back, clutching his side. Blood seeped between his fingers, dark and terrible in the moonlight.

“Dante!” I screamed, scrambling toward him.

“No!” He held up a bloody hand. “Get in the car, Alessia. Get in the car and drive.”

“I’m not leaving you!”

“You have to.” His voice broke. “Please. Just go.”

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t leave him. Not after everything. Not after—

A shadow fell over me.

I looked up, and Viktor stood there, his face twisted with rage, a bloody knife in his hand. Behind him, Luca was on his knees, surrounded by Russian soldiers. And in the distance, I heard the wail of police sirens—too far away to save us.

“You chose wrong,” Viktor hissed, raising the knife.

And then everything went black.