14

Dante didn’t say a word as we left the docks. His grip on my wrist was tight, unrelenting, but I didn’t pull away. My mind was blank, my body numb. Nicolas was dead. Just like that. A single shot, a decision made in an instant, and now the man who had once been like family was nothing more than a lifeless body lying in the dark.

I should have felt something. Anger. Relief. Sadness. But there was only silence. A void where emotions should have been. Dante shoved me into the passenger seat of his car, slamming the door shut before walking around and getting in himself. He started the engine, the low rumble vibrating through the air, but he didn’t drive. For a long moment, he just sat there, his fingers gripping the steering wheel, his breathing steady but controlled. Like he was waiting for me to break.

But I didn’t.

“You should have stayed at the safe house,” he said finally, his voice low, rough.

I turned my head to look at him. “You think I regret coming?”

His jaw clenched. “You should.”

I let out a hollow laugh. “I’m not the one who pulled the trigger.”

His eyes flickered to mine, something unreadable swimming in their depths. “Would you have?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. I didn’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. But it didn’t matter anymore, did it? Dante had done it for me. He had done what I couldn’t, what I might never be able to do. He had ended it with no hesitation, no second thoughts.

No loose ends.

“I guess we’ll never know,” I said softly, turning my gaze to the window.

Dante didn’t respond. He put the car in gear and pulled onto the road, the city lights flashing past us as we drove in silence. My hands were clenched into fists in my lap, nails digging into my palms. I kept seeing it. The blood. The way Nicolas’s body had crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut. The way Dante had lowered his gun like it was nothing. Like it was just another task checked off his list.

He wasn’t just dangerous. He was ruthless.

And I had no idea what that meant for me.

When we reached the safe house, Dante’s men were already waiting, their expressions carefully neutral as they opened the gates. Dante didn’t slow down, didn’t say a word as we pulled inside and the doors locked behind us. The second the car stopped, I pushed the door open and got out, my body vibrating with something I couldn’t name. Anger. Fear. Something in between.

I didn’t stop until I reached the living room, my hands gripping the edge of the table for support. My legs felt weak. My heart was pounding. Nicolas was dead. The man who had tried to kill me was gone. So why didn’t I feel safe?

Dante walked in behind me, his footsteps quiet but heavy. I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t look at him. Not yet.

“You’re shaking,” he said.

I forced a laugh. “You think?”

He sighed, and then suddenly, he was there, too close, his warmth pressing against my back. His hands landed on my arms, steadying me, grounding me. I hated how much I needed it. How much I needed him.

“You need to breathe,” he murmured.

I exhaled shakily. “I don’t know how.”

His hands tightened. “Yes, you do.”

I turned then, looking up at him, searching his face for something—anything. Some proof that he felt what I was feeling. That this wasn’t normal for him. That killing a man hadn’t been just another day in his world.

But I found nothing.

His face was calm. Controlled. The same as always.

“How do you do it?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

His gaze didn’t waver. “Do what?”

“Turn it off.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his thumb brushed against my wrist, right where my pulse was thrumming wildly beneath my skin. His touch was firm but strangely gentle.

“I don’t turn it off,” he said finally. “I live with it.”

I swallowed hard. “And if I can’t?”

His expression darkened, something flickering behind his eyes. “Then you’ll break.”

The words hit harder than I expected. He wasn’t warning me. He wasn’t threatening me. He was stating a fact.

I stepped back, out of his reach, wrapping my arms around myself. “I need to be alone.”

Something flashed across his face, gone before I could name it. He nodded once, stepping back. “I’ll be outside.”

I turned before he could say anything else, before I could change my mind, and walked to the bedroom. The second the door shut behind me, I let out a shaky breath, my hands gripping the edge of the dresser for support. My reflection in the mirror looked foreign. My eyes were wide, haunted. My lips were parted, my breathing uneven.

I had spent my whole life believing in right and wrong. Believing that justice was something that happened in courtrooms, in legal documents, in the hands of people who followed the rules.

But Dante had his own rules.

And I had just watched him enforce them.

I pressed my forehead against the cool wood, trying to calm my thoughts. But the truth was there, clear and undeniable.

I wasn’t scared because Nicolas was dead.

I was scared because I didn’t regret it.

I was scared because a part of me was relieved.

I was scared because Dante had done exactly what needed to be done.

And I wasn’t sure what that said about me.

A knock at the door startled me. I turned, expecting Dante, but when I opened it, it was one of his men. A tall, broad-shouldered guy with sharp eyes and an expression that gave nothing away.

“Boss needs you,” he said simply.

I exhaled, forcing myself to stand straighter. “Now?”

He nodded.

I glanced back at the empty room behind me. A moment ago, I had wanted to be alone. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

With one last deep breath, I followed him back into the lion’s den.