I’m staring down the barrel of Gianni Lombardi’s gun.
Again.
It all happened so fast.
One minute, I’m dozing off on the pathetic cot in my cell, drifting in and out of exhausted sleep. The next, I’m being startled awake by Gianni’s rough grip as he jerks me upright.
I’m pulled off the cot and through the door, then down the dark hallway. He shoves me toward the narrow, creaky staircase. My ankles ache with every forced step, my heart hammering as I try to figure out what’s happening.
We reach the top of the stairs. I’m confronted with the grim sight of the main floor of the dilapidated house I’d been taken to. I’d almost forgotten what it looked like; it feels so long ago since I was brought here.
“Don’t try anything cute,” Linda says. She’s standing off to the side, hands on her hips, a wickedly pleased smirk on her face.
Gianni joins her. He’s breathing heavily, his finger poised over the trigger, eyes gleaming with the sick thrill of control. “This is how it ends for you, sweetheart,” he says. “No big speech. No last-minute rescue. Just a bullet and lights out.”
Linda stands with her arms folded, a snake-like grin stretched across her face. She’s practically glowing with triumph and glee.
“There’s been a change of plans,” she says. “I’ve decided I don’t need to keep you alive to get what I want. Anything you’d like to say, Eva, before my associate sends you and your baby to the afterlife?”
I glare at her, forcing a false boldness I don’t feel. “Fuck you, you conniving bitch.”
She rolls her eyes. Gianni’s hand tightens on the gun as he moves toward me, the muzzle inches from my face. Oh God, oh God. I stare him down as I brace for the flash and the embrace of final darkness afterward.
The front door explodes open, ripped off its hinges by the sheer force. Deep voices shout out urgent commands in Italian and Russian. Linda whips around, eyes wide. Gianni hisses a curse, shifting the gun away from me and toward the commotion.
Glass shatters as heavily armed men in dark suits jump in through the windows, their footsteps pounding on the old wooden floor. Linda’s handful of men scramble for cover like cowards, while Gianni points his weapon at the nearest intruder.
Dante storms in, the look on his face lethal and unforgiving. Behind him are a dozen or more men in black, also heavily armed. He’s absolutely furious. Among them, standing with a swagger that exudes fearlessness, is a tall, broad-shouldered figure I don’t recognize—until he speaks.
Alex Abramovic.
Gianni is startled by a shadow moving near the door and fires off a round. Linda shrieks, throwing herself behind a toppled table. Gianni’s unnecessary shot causes Linda’s men to panic, and they begin firing their weapons as well. As gunfire rains down, I hit the floor, crawling behind an old filing cabinet.
Dante shouts, “Linda! Call off your dogs or I’ll put them down!”
The response is more gunfire, a frantic volley back and forth. Linda’s men are outnumbered. One by one, I hear them grunt, curse, or scream as Dante and Abramovic’s men systematically dismantle their defense.
Out of the corner of my eye I watch as Linda crawls to Gianni’s side, eyes wild. “Kill her,” she snaps, pointing in my direction. “Now, Gianni!”
He grunts, wiping blood from a cut on his temple.
I scramble backward, pain shooting through my bruised body.
Hold on, little one.
Gianni lunges toward me, ignoring the mayhem behind him. His eyes are empty and manic in a religious-like dedication to finishing the job. He aims—his face twisted with lethal intent.
Bang!
The sound reverberates through my skull and I flinch, waiting for the pain to hit. But Gianni’s gun didn’t fire the shot.
He staggers backward, eyes going wide in shock. Blood blooms across his chest. Another shot cracks through the air, and he collapses to the floor, the gun clattering from his limp fingers.
Alex Abramovic stands behind me, calmly lowering his weapon, not an ounce of remorse on his face.
Lombardi is dead.
I take a deep breath, relief mingling with horror. My entire body trembles, but I’m still alive. I blink to steady myself as Abramovic steps aside, scanning the room for other threats.
Linda, crouched behind an overturned desk, lets out a wail. “Gianni!” She crawls toward him, tears streaking her cheeks, though I can’t tell if she’s crying for him or the downfall of her plan.
Dante emerges from the shadows, a thunderstorm given human form. His eyes are black, burning with wrath. A gun glints in his hand. When he spots me, the intensity in his gaze flares even brighter.
“Eva,” he growls. He glances at my stomach, then back to my eyes. He looks as if he’s about to tear the world apart in order to protect us.
Before he can take a step toward me, Linda lets out a hysterical scream, Gianni’s pistol in her hand. She points it at Dante, tears streaming down her contorted face.
“You think you’ve won?” she hisses. “I’ll kill her, and you can rot alone!”
She swings the gun toward me.
Dante moves like lightning, a single gunshot cracking through the air. Linda cries out, spinning sideways, clutching her thigh. Blood stains her elegant clothes, and she topples over, howling in pain. The gun falls from her hand, clattering away.
The shot wasn’t meant to be lethal—it was meant to disable.
Dante strides over, ice-cold fury in every step. Abramovic and a few of his men fan out around us, rounding up Linda’s battered goons.
She tries to scramble away, dragging her wounded leg and sobbing. Dante places a polished leather boot on her ankle, pinning her to the ground. She screams in agony.
I push myself upright, head spinning, heart pounding. My eyes look around, half-expecting more guns to be pointed at me. But it’s over.
“Linda,” Dante says, voice low and deadly, “you tried to murder my child.”
Her face twists into a mask of hatred. “You stole everything from me. My youth, my future, my son!”
Dante’s jaw clenches. “You used Luca like a pawn, don’t pretend otherwise.” He lifts his gaze to Abramovic, hovering near Gianni’s corpse, expressionless. “Alex. If you please?”
Abramovic holsters his gun, stepping forward with a small, predatory smile. “My men will take her. She’ll disappear. No one will ever see her again, except maybe the locals in Siberia.”
Linda’s eyes widen with sheer terror. “No… Dante, you can’t do this! We have a son! We—”
Dante presses harder on her injured leg, a shriek replacing her next words. “We have nothing together. You are nothing to me.”
His voice is colder than I’ve ever heard. She begs and pleads with Dante for mercy. She looks so pathetic, her usual perfect makeup streaked across her face, hair mussed, clothes torn and bloody. My stomach churns, but I can’t muster sympathy for a woman who planned to kill me and my child.
He doesn’t look at her as he gestures to Abramovic, who motions to his men. They unceremoniously haul her upright by her arms, holding her in place. The leg Dante shot is useless. I shudder, hugging myself.
This is what Dante does.
Dante stands there for a moment, gun still in hand, breathing heavily. When he finally looks to me, everything else fades away. His eyes soften, his expression is tender. He hesitates, like he’s not sure if he should approach.
I swallow hard as fear, anger, and confusion swirl in my chest. But there’s also an overwhelming sense of safety now that he’s here and the immediate threat is gone. A sob breaks from my throat.
“Dante.” I reach out for him.
He closes the distance, sliding his arm around my waist to steady me. I convinced myself I never wanted to see him again, yet I’m desperately glad he’s here.
“Eva,” he says, brushing a stray hair from my face. His gaze flicks over the bruises, the dried blood on my lip. Slowly, he holsters his weapon. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”
