Chapter 133

Chapter 133

Gabriela’s POV
The first thing I felt was the cold.
Not the kind of cold from a room with the air conditioning set too high. Real cold—the kind that seeps into your bones and reaches a place where your skin can no longer protect you. The cold of uninsulated walls, of a concrete floor, of a place never meant for anyone to sleep in.
Then came the pain. Dull and heavy at the base of my skull, as if someone had hit my head with a brick wrapped in cotton. My mouth was dry, my tongue thick, and there was a bitter, chemical taste I recognized before I even opened my eyes—because I had felt it before.
That night at the bar when I was twenty-five, when a stranger slipped something into my drink.
The drug. The champagne. The waitress who wasn’t a waitress.
I opened my eyes slowly.
The ceiling was made of old wood with exposed beams stained by moisture, forming dark shapes that looked like maps of countries that didn’t exist. A bare lightbulb hung from a frayed wire, casting a sickly yellow glow that turned everything into shadows.
This wasn’t a warehouse.
It was a cabin.
Wood plank walls with cracks letting in the night air. A small window to my right, boarded shut from the outside. A concrete floor with nothing to soften the cold that crept up my spine. A filthy mattress beneath me that smelled like dampness—and something else I didn’t want to identify. A wooden door in front of me, closed, secured with a padlock that gleamed mockingly under the light.
And around my wrists, tightened to the point of pain, metal handcuffs attached to a chain hooked into an iron loop bolted to the wall.
I didn’t scream.
I wanted to. Every cell in my body wanted to open my mouth and let out a howl that would tear through those walls and reach Alejandro, or Gabriel, or my mother—anyone who could get me out of here. But I didn’t scream, because the months with Dante had taught me something the doctor later confirmed:
Screaming in front of a predator doesn’t save you—it excites him.
I breathed. In. Out. In. Out.
The drug still blurred the edges of my vision, and my muscles responded with a half-second delay that made me feel like I was moving underwater. But my mind was clearing fast. My body knew this chemical. It had processed it before. Either the dose was smaller this time, or my tolerance was higher.
I heard footsteps outside.
Heavy. Uneven. On gravel or dirt.
Getting closer.
The door opened, and Dante walked in, bringing with him the smell of cologne and cold sweat that hit my stomach like a punch. He was wearing dark jeans, a black hoodie, and his hair was longer than I had ever seen it—messy, no longer the perfectly controlled look he used to maintain as part of his civilized-man disguise.
He looked at me from the doorway with those eyes I knew too well.
The same look from those nights in the Hamptons. When he would enter my room with the slow steps of someone who knew his prey couldn’t escape.
Pure possession. Hot. Sick.
—You’re awake —he said, closing the door behind him.
I didn’t respond.
My brain was moving fast, far faster than my body—assessing options, calculating distances, remembering everything my mother had taught me in the gym and every tool my therapist had given me to survive.
I needed to pretend.
Dante stepped closer and crouched in front of me, elbows on his knees, wearing that smile that might have looked charming if I didn’t know what lay behind it.
—How do you feel?
—Bad —I said, my voice hoarse without needing to fake it—. My head hurts, and I’m thirsty.
—The drug dehydrated you. I should’ve used less, but I didn’t know how much you’d weigh with the dress.
He spoke about the kidnapping like someone commenting on traffic. No guilt. No tension. As if drugging a woman on her wedding day were just another logistical detail.
—Where are we? —I asked.
—Somewhere safe. Far from your family and that idiot who thinks he can have you. No one’s going to find us here, Gabriela. We stay until you understand that you belong with me.
Nausea rose in my throat, but I swallowed it.
I needed Dante to lower his guard.
And for that, I needed to give him what he wanted to hear.
My mother had taught me—without realizing it. Not in the gym, but in the stories she told about the years my father disappeared and she had to face the company’s enemies alone.
“Sometimes the best fight is the one they don’t know you’re fighting,” she said once between sets. “Let them think they’ve won. Let them relax. And when they drop their guard—you strike.”
I took a breath and let my eyes fill with tears.
I didn’t have to force them. The fear was real. The pain was real. The desperation was absolutely real.
I just had to aim it.
—Dante —I said, my voice trembling, letting vulnerability spill into every syllable—. I’m scared.
Something shifted in his expression. Just slightly—softening around the eyes.
—You don’t have to be afraid —he said, moving closer—. I’m not going to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you, Gabriela. I just want you to be with me.
—I know —I lied, and it cost me something deep—. I know. And I think… I think part of me always knew. That you need me. That what you feel is real—even if the way you showed it scared me.
His eyes widened just a fraction.
Surprise.
He hadn’t expected that—not so quickly. But obsession has a massive blind spot:
It needs to believe it’s reciprocated.
And I was giving him exactly what he needed to believe.
—You mean that? —he asked, his voice briefly sounding like a child’s.
—Don’t hurt me —I whispered, letting more tears fall—. That’s all I ask. Don’t hurt me, and I can try. I can try to understand you… to be with you. But I need you not to hurt me.
—I won’t hurt you. I promise. Never again.
A promise.
Like the ones he made before.
But this one gave me something I needed more than anything.
Time.
—I’m thirsty —I repeated—. And hungry. Can you give me something?
He stood and walked to a corner where a grocery bag held water bottles, cookies, and fruit—proof he had planned to stay here for days. He brought me a bottle and a pack of cookies, kneeling again in front of me.
—The cuffs —I said, raising my hands as far as the chain allowed—. I can’t eat like this.
He hesitated.
I saw the calculation in his face.
But the act was working.
He pulled a small key from his pocket and unlocked the handcuffs.
The relief was instant and intense. I rubbed my wrists slowly, drank water in long gulps, and ate three cookies like an obedient prisoner.
Dante sat across from me, back against the opposite wall, watching me eat with that possessive satisfaction that made my stomach turn—but I hid it.
—Why Alejandro? —he asked suddenly.
—What does he have that I don’t?
The honest answer was everything.
But honesty would cost me my teeth.
—I felt alone, and he was there. But it’s not like what we have, Dante. What we have is more intense. More real. Alejandro is kind… but kind isn’t the same as passionate. You’ve always been more.
I gave him what he needed.
And it burned on the way out.
Hours passed.
He talked. I listened.
I nodded at the right moments, asked questions that made him feel understood, building—piece by piece—the illusion he wanted.
Night fell.
Real darkness. The kind only the countryside can produce.
No lights. No traffic. No sirens.
Just wind through trees. Old wood creaking.
And Dante’s breathing.
Slowing.
He hadn’t slept. I could see it in his eyes. The exhaustion of weeks planning this. The adrenaline fading.
His body was losing.
He leaned back, legs stretched out, eyes half-closed.
And next to his right hip—
The gun.
Black. Compact. Safety on.
Not the Glock from before. Smaller.
Still lethal.
—You should sleep —I said softly.
—I can’t. If I sleep, you’ll leave.
—Where would I go? I don’t know where I am, and I don’t even have shoes.
He studied that.
Barefoot. Isolated. Trapped.
Where would I go?
—Stay close —he muttered, closing his eyes.
I moved slowly and sat beside him.
I could smell him. Hear his breathing deepen.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Fifteen.
His head tilted. His jaw slackened.
Asleep.
The gun was still there.
Fifty centimeters from his hand.
Thirty from mine.
I moved.
Slow.
Silent.
Twenty centimeters.
Ten.
My fingers touched the cold metal.
And Dante opened his eyes.
Time shattered.
His eyes snapped from sleep to fury.
His hand lunged.
So did mine.
We collided over the gun.
Life or death.
I got there first.
By half a second.
I grabbed it with both hands and rolled away, just like my mother taught me—only now it was on concrete, my knees scraping, my dress tearing.
Dante lunged.
He grabbed my ankle and yanked me hard. I slid across the floor.
I kicked.
My heel connected with his jaw.
He loosened just enough.
I dragged myself back, stood up, back against the wall—
Gun raised.
Pointed at his chest.
Dante stood slowly, wiping blood from his lip.
He didn’t look human anymore.
—Gabriela. Put it down.
—No.
—You don’t know how to use it.
—Take off the safety. Aim center mass. Pull the trigger. My mother taught me.
Something shifted in his eyes.
Recognition.
This wasn’t the same woman anymore.
—You won’t shoot me —he said, stepping forward.
—One more step and find out.
—You’re incapable of hurting anyone. That’s what I always loved about you—
Another step.
I pulled the trigger.
The shot exploded through the cabin.
The recoil slammed into my arms.
My ears rang.
The world disappeared into noise.
Dante stopped.
Looked down.
At his shoulder.
Red spreading slowly through the black fabric.
He looked back up at me.
And for the first time—
I saw fear.
—Next one goes to your chest —I said, my voice steady, cold—. Sit down. Hands where I can see them.
He sank to the floor.
Pressing his wound.
Bleeding.
Watching me.
I stood there.
Gun aimed.
Back against the wall.
Wedding dress torn. Dirty. Stained with blood.
Breathing.
Alive.
Free.