Chapter 8 - The Price of Blood
Vanessa dropped to her knees, clutching her bleeding forearm, her arrogance evaporating into pathetic, hysterical sobs.
“Dante... Dante, please! It was my father! He made me do it! He forced me to sign those papers, he planned the ambush—!”
Dante didn't raise his gun. He simply walked toward her, each step heavy and deliberate, the leather of his boots crushing the plaster and glass beneath him.
“Your father didn't make it to Zurich,” Dante said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “His jet never left the runway. The federal marshals boarded the plane ten minutes before takeoff. Richard Bennett is currently sitting in a holding cell, facing seventy counts of corporate manslaughter, racketeering, and treason.”
Vanessa’s jaw trembled. “You... you knew?”
“I have known every move your family has made for six months,” Dante said, stopping right before her. “The Vanev mercenaries? They work for whoever pays them the most. I bought their commander two weeks ago. When Richard sent them to ambush me at the docks, they weren't waiting with guns. They were waiting with the manifest of every offshore account your father owns.”
He looked down at her with pure disgust.
“You came here thinking I was trapped,” Dante continued. “The only trap was the one you walked into. I left this house lightly guarded on purpose, Vanessa. I wanted to see if you were stupid enough to come for what belongs to me.”
“Dante, please... we were supposed to be married!” Vanessa pleaded, crawling toward him, her hands reaching out for the hem of his trousers. “I can give you everything! My family’s remaining assets, our political connections—!”
“Don't touch me,” Dante commanded.
The authority in his voice made her freeze.
Dante turned to Elena. The lethal darkness in his posture melted into instant concern. He crossed the room in two strides, dropping the gun onto the desk, and pulled Elena into his arms.
His embrace was crushing, fierce, and desperate. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling her scent as if he had been starved of oxygen.
“Are you hurt?” he whispered against her ear, his large hands frantically checking her shoulders, her arms, her waist. “Did she touch you?”
“I’m fine,” Elena gasped, dropping the saber to the floor and wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. She buried her face in the curve of his throat, feeling the frantic, hammering beat of his pulse. “I’m fine, Dante. I’m okay.”
He let out a long, ragged exhale against her skin, holding her so tightly she could barely breathe—and she never wanted him to let go.
Behind them, the sounds of heavy boots filled the corridor. Marco entered the room, flanked by four Moretti guards.
“Boss,” Marco said, assessing the scene quickly. “Federal agents are at the front gate. Special Agent Vance is here for the Bennett girl.”
Dante didn't release Elena from his arms. He simply looked over her shoulder at his lieutenant. “Hand her over. Make sure the body cam footage from the hallway is on the flash drive for Vance. Attempted murder, armed home invasion, and corporate terrorism. Ensure she never sees daylight again.”
“Understood, boss.”
Two guards hauled Vanessa to her feet. The heiress screamed and thrashed, shouting curses at Elena, but the sound faded as they dragged her down the stairs and out into the waiting squad cars of the federal task force.
The room fell quiet once more. The rain outside began to soften into a gentle mist against the glass.
Dante pulled back slightly, his hands framing Elena’s face. He looked at her with an intensity that made her soul shiver.
“It’s over,” he whispered. “They will never touch you again. Not her, not her father, not anyone.”
Elena looked into his bruised, exhausted face, seeing the man behind the ruthless king. “And my mother?”
Dante smiled—a real, breathtaking smile that reached his dark eyes. “Dr. Sterling called ten minutes ago. The first round of the pure compound was administered successfully. Her vitals are stabilizing. He says she will walk out of that hospital in three months.”
Elena let out a sob, this time of pure, overwhelming joy. She pulled Dante down to her and kissed him with all the passion and gratitude burning in her heart. He groaned softly, lifting her off her feet, pressing her against the edge of the mahogany desk as his mouth claimed hers with fierce, unyielding devotion.
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The nightmare was dead. And in the ashes, something beautiful had taken root.
***
