Chapter 7: Blood and Broken Promises

The world came back in fragments.

First, the ringing in my ears—a high-pitched whine that drowned out everything else. Then the pain, sharp and immediate, radiating from my shoulder where I'd hit the ground. And finally, the weight.

Dante's body was draped over mine, heavy and unnaturally still. His blood—warm and wet—soaked through my dress, staining the pale silk crimson.

"Dante?" My voice cracked. "Dante, please—"

He didn't move.

Sirens wailed in the distance, but they were still too far. The Russians had scattered when the first gunshot rang out—not from Viktor, but from somewhere behind us. A shot that had torn through the darkness and found its mark in Viktor's shoulder, sending the knife clattering to the concrete.

Luca. Even beaten and bloody, he'd managed to fire.

But Viktor had already swung. The blade had caught Dante across the ribs as he threw himself between me and death.

"Don't move," Dante rasped against my neck. His breath was hot and shallow. "They're still... watching."

I wanted to scream at him. To shake him. To demand why—why he would throw his own body in front of a knife meant for me. But my hands were already moving, pressing against the wound in his side, feeling the warm gush of blood between my fingers.

"You're bleeding," I whispered, stupidly. As if he didn't know.

"Just a scratch." He tried to push himself up, but his arm gave out, and he collapsed against me again with a grunt of pain. "Luca—"

"I'm here, boss." Luca's voice came from somewhere to my left, hoarse and strained. "Viktor's down. The others ran when they heard the sirens."

"Good." Dante's hand found mine, his fingers slick with blood. "Get her out of here."

"Like hell I will," I snapped. The words came out fierce, surprising even me. "You're not dying on me, Dante Moretti. I didn't survive being kidnapped and shot at just to watch you bleed out on some dirty warehouse floor."

A ghost of a smile crossed his pale lips. "Stubborn woman."

"Someone has to be."

The sirens grew louder. Red and blue lights began to paint the walls of the warehouse, and I heard the screech of tires on gravel outside.

"Police," Luca said, his voice tight. "We need to move. Now."

Dante's grip on my hand tightened. "Alessia. Listen to me."

"No. You listen to me." Tears burned my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. "You don't get to sacrifice yourself for me and then die before I can—" I stopped, the words catching in my throat.

Before I can what? Before I can yell at you for being a arrogant, controlling bastard? Before I can thank you for saving my life? Before I can figure out why my heart is racing every time you look at me?

"Before you can what?" Dante's eyes, dark and intense despite the pain, searched my face.

"I don't know," I admitted. "But you're going to live so I can figure it out."

Luca appeared at my side, his face a mask of blood and determination. "We need to go. I'll carry him."

"No." Dante's voice was weak but firm. "Help me up. I can walk."

"You can barely—"

"Help me up."

Together, Luca and I managed to get Dante to his feet. He swayed dangerously, one arm wrapped around my shoulders, the other pressed against his wounded side. His blood smeared across my dress, my arms, my face—but I didn't care. All I cared about was keeping him upright.

The warehouse had a back exit—a rusted door that led to a narrow alley. Luca kicked it open, and we stumbled through just as the first police officers breached the front entrance.

"This way," Luca hissed, guiding us through the maze of back streets. The sirens faded behind us, replaced by the pounding of our footsteps and Dante's labored breathing.

We made it to a safe house—a small apartment above a closed bakery—where Luca quickly set to work cleaning and stitching Dante's wound. I stood in the corner, my arms wrapped around myself, watching as Dante's face contorted with pain with every stitch.

He'd taken a knife for me. He'd put his body between me and death without hesitation.

Why?

The question burned in my chest, demanding an answer. He was a mafia boss, a man who'd kidnapped me for revenge against my father. He had no reason to protect me. No reason to care whether I lived or died.

Unless...

"Stop staring at me like that," Dante murmured, his eyes still closed. "You're making me nervous."

I blinked. "You're the one who just got stabbed. I think you're allowed to be nervous."

"I'm not nervous about the stab wound." He opened his eyes, and the intensity in them stole my breath. "I'm nervous about what you're thinking."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "What makes you think I'm thinking anything?"

"Because I know you, Alessia." He winced as Luca tied off the last stitch. "You're too quiet. You're always quiet when something's bothering you."

"I'm always quiet? We've known each other for a week."

"And in that week, I've learned more about you than I've learned about people I've known for years." He pushed himself up on his elbows, ignoring Luca's protests. "So tell me. What's going on in that head of yours?"

I should have lied. Should have deflected. Should have said something sarcastic to break the tension.

Instead, the truth spilled out of me like blood from a wound.

"I don't understand you," I whispered. "You kidnapped me. You threatened me. You kept me prisoner. But tonight, you almost died trying to save me. Why?"

Dante's expression softened—a rare crack in his carefully constructed armor. "Because you're mine."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer I have."

I shook my head, frustration burning in my chest. "That's not good enough. I'm not a possession, Dante. I'm not a thing to be owned. I'm a person—"

"A person I'm falling in love with."

The words hung in the air between us, heavy and impossible. My heart stopped. My lungs forgot how to breathe.

"What?" The word came out as barely a whisper.

Dante reached out, his fingers brushing against my cheek. His touch was gentle despite the blood still staining his hands. "I didn't mean for it to happen. I didn't want it to happen. But you—" He swallowed hard. "You make me feel something I thought I'd lost a long time ago."

I should have pulled away. Should have told him he was delusional from blood loss. Should have reminded him that we were enemies, that he'd taken everything from me.

But my body didn't move. My heart didn't want to.

"Dante..." I didn't know what I was going to say. Didn't know if I was going to tell him to go to hell or to kiss me or to never let me go.

And then the window shattered.

A bullet whizzed past my ear, embedding itself in the wall behind me. I screamed, and Dante surged upward despite his wound, throwing himself over me once again.

"Luca!" he roared.

But Luca was already down, blood blooming across his chest, his eyes wide with shock.

And through the shattered window, I saw him. Viktor. Alive. Grinning.

"I told you," he called out, his voice dripping with malice. "You chose wrong."

The door burst open, and armed men flooded into the room.