CH-20.

CH-20.

Dante POV

The silence between us is thick enough to strangle.

Isabella hasn’t looked at me since we walked through the door. She’s seated by the window now, the dim orange glow of the safehouse lamp casting sharp shadows over her face. Her fingers wrap tightly around her phone like it’s both lifeline and blade. Every so often, her thumb hovers over the screen—but she doesn’t unlock it.

She’s stewing in doubt. In my silence.
And it’s killing me more than any bullet could.

I pace the floor, slow and restless, trying to think of a way to undo the unraveling thread between us. She’s slipping away, inch by inch. Every secret I kept to protect her is now a brick in the wall between us. I want to tear it down. I want to scream every bloody truth I’ve ever swallowed whole.

But if I do, I might lose her anyway.

She speaks without turning. “Where were you last night, Dante?”

My body goes still. The question shouldn’t rattle me—but her voice is sharp, too calm. That dangerous calm that comes before everything breaks.

“Working,” I say, careful.

“With who?”

The glass in her tone cracks wider.

I pause. That pause is all it takes.

“Don’t lie to me,” she says. Soft. Deadly.

I move toward her, slow, deliberate. She doesn’t flinch, but her fingers twitch near the pistol tucked into the waistband of her jeans. Not out of fear. Out of instinct. Readiness. Mistrust.

“I’m not lying,” I say, keeping my voice low. “But if you really think I’m the enemy—pull the trigger and get it over with.”

Her eyes finally meet mine, and it nearly breaks me.
Not because of the fury in them.
But because of the hurt. The betrayal. The disbelief that I, of all people, could be her undoing.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she hisses. “For me to do the dirty work for you—just like you did for Selene?”

I go still.

She’s seen the photo.

“Where did you get that?” I demand, pulse spiking.

She laughs, bitter and low. “You think I’m going to tell you? You think I trust you enough to believe anything you say?”

“I’m not working for her, Isabella,” I growl. “She’s using ghosts—mine, yours, all of ours—to turn us into puppets.”

“Ghosts?” Her voice breaks. “You mean the debt you owe her? How many times have you walked into blood and didn’t tell me? How many secrets have you buried under the excuse of ‘protection’? When were you going to tell me the truth about my mother?”

I grab her wrist—not hard, but enough to feel her pulse beneath my thumb. Rapid. Pained. Real.

“You’re not weak,” I whisper, jaw clenched. “You terrify me, Isabella. Because I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you. And that kind of wanting makes a man dangerous. If I let go of the blade I carry, if I let myself be soft for one second—someone will use that softness to kill you.”

“Then maybe,” she whispers, eyes blazing, “I don’t want your protection. Maybe I just want the truth—even if it kills me.”

We stand locked in silence. Her breath fans against my throat. Her wrist still held tight in my grip. We’re so close—and yet the distance between our hearts has never felt wider.

Before I can say anything, the door crashes open.

Marco storms in, his face pale beneath the bruises. “We’ve got movement,” he announces grimly, tossing a tablet onto the table.

Grainy security footage flickers to life. A corridor—dark, industrial, cold. Selene’s soldiers are moving through it. Black combat gear. Tactical formation. Lethal precision.

“They’re close,” Marco mutters. “Too fucking close.”

“Where?” Isabella snaps, all the softness in her voice gone. She’s back to the heir now. The fighter.

“Three clicks from the safehouse,” he replies. “And they’re not alone. We’ve got Volkov insignias on two of the trucks.”

I swear under my breath. “Russians. Selene’s stacking her deck.”

I grab my gun and double-clip the holster. Isabella is already moving—snapping rounds into her pistol, checking knives. Her movements are like dance—sharp, rehearsed, deadly.

“Stay behind me,” I say without thinking.

She glares. “I’m not your shadow, Dante. I fight with you.”

We step into the dark together. Marco takes point, his movements jittery with adrenaline. The wind howls low between the trees, and the air carries that eerie stillness—the kind that comes before a bloodbath.

We reach the perimeter.

I drop to one knee and raise my scope.

Six soldiers. Military-trained. Their steps are too clean, too rehearsed. But it’s not them that stops my breath.

It’s the girl standing between them.

Alone. Still. Waiting like bait.

Aria.

Isabella’s breath stutters beside me. “She’s here.”

Selene’s puppet. The copy. The girl with Isabella’s face and none of her fire.

But Aria doesn’t raise a weapon. She just stands there—arms partially lifted, eyes wide, almost… pleading.

“This is wrong,” I mutter. Every instinct screams trap.

Isabella steps forward before I can stop her.

“Wait—”

Gunfire erupts.

A bullet slices past her head, shattering bark from the tree inches away. I tackle her hard, rolling us into cover behind a crumbling stone wall. My shoulder cracks against the earth, but I don’t care.

She could’ve died.

I return fire without thinking, gun barking in my hand. The air explodes with bullets—sharp, bitter, metallic. Marco curses behind us, laying cover fire from a crouch.

“Move!” I shout, dragging Isabella further into cover.

Then I hear it. Through the chaos. A voice—soft, eerie, familiar.

Aria.

“Don’t trust him, Isabella.”

My spine stiffens. She’s not shouting. Not to the soldiers.

She’s speaking directly to her.

“What the hell did you just say?” I snarl, turning to face Aria’s silhouette.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.

Only smiles. Small. Ghostly. Almost… sad.

“Ask him what he promised Selene,” she says. “The night your mother died.”

The words hit harder than the bullets.

My blood turns to ice.

Isabella jerks beside me. “What does she mean?”

I open my mouth. The truth claws at the back of my throat.

But then—

Boom.

A flashbang detonates just yards away. White light sears my vision. My ears ring with a high-pitched shriek. I shield Isabella with my body as the world turns into a smear of smoke and sound.

By the time my eyes refocus, the clearing is empty.

Aria is gone.

So is Marco.