Chapter Fifty Six

Chapter Fifty Six

Felicia’s POV

Dante hit the floor with a thud, his grin fading as Henry pinned him, the switchblade clattering uselessly across the room. Blood smeared his lip, his dark eyes wild but dimming under Henry’s weight. I stood frozen, the lamp still trembling in my hands from where I’d smashed it against his skull. My breath came in jagged gasps, the air thick with sweat and fear.

“Stay down,” Henry growled, his fist cocked for another strike. Dante wheezed a laugh, but it was cut short as heavy boots stormed into the apartment. Flashlights sliced through the darkness, beams catching the chaos—overturned furniture, the splintered door, us.

“Hands up!” a voice barked. Cops—three of them—flooded the room, guns drawn. Henry raised his hands slowly, easing off Dante, who smirked despite the blood trickling down his chin.

“He’s the one you want,” Henry said, nodding at Dante. “Tried to kill us.”

One cop—a broad-shouldered guy with a buzz cut—stepped forward, yanking Dante’s arms behind his back. Metal clicked as handcuffs snapped around his wrists. “You’re done, asshole,” the cop muttered, hauling him up. Dante didn’t resist, just twisted his head to lock eyes with me, his grin curling back like a snake’s.

“See you soon, sweetheart,” he rasped, his voice a promise even as they dragged him toward the door.

Before I could process it, more footsteps thundered in—this time, not cops. Three men burst through, rough-edged and familiar: Tommy, a wiry guy with a scar over his eyebrow; Jake, built like a linebacker; and Rico, all quiet intensity. Henry’s crew—guys he’d known since his days running odd jobs before he straightened out.

“Henry!” Tommy called, scanning the room. “You good, man?”

Henry exhaled, slumping against the wall, his bloody knuckles flexing. “Yeah. Took you long enough.”

“Got held up—cops everywhere downstairs,” Jake said, clapping Henry on the shoulder. “Saw the fire out front. What the hell happened?”

“Long story,” Henry muttered, his gaze flicking to me. “Felicia’s okay. That’s what matters.”

Rico nodded at me, his dark eyes softening. “You hurt?”

“No,” I lied, my voice shaky. Physically, maybe not. But inside? I was a wreck.

The cops were already shoving Dante out, his laughter echoing down the hall until it faded. Henry’s men lingered, forming a protective wall around us as the adrenaline drained away, leaving me cold and hollow.

“Let’s get you out of here,” Tommy said, jerking his head toward the door. “This place is a war zone.”

Henry nodded, but his eyes stayed on me, heavy with everything we hadn’t said. “You ready?”

I wasn’t. Not even close. But I forced a nod, clutching the lamp like it was the only thing holding me together.

Flashback—Earlier That Night

The landline’s shrill ring had cut through the fight like a lifeline. I’d stumbled to it, my hands slick with sweat, as Henry wrestled Dante on the floor. “Hello?” I’d croaked, barely audible over the grunts and thuds.

“Felicia? This is Detective Ramirez,” came the voice—calm, steady, a stark contrast to the chaos. “We’ve got a unit outside your building. Saw the lights go out. You okay?”

Relief had slammed into me, sharp and fleeting. “No—no, he’s here. Inside. Please, hurry!”

“Stay put. We’re coming up.” The line clicked dead, and I’d dropped the phone, spinning back to Henry. Dante had twisted free, his knife slashing toward Henry’s side, but I’d swung the lamp—wild, desperate—cracking it against his temple. He’d staggered, giving Henry the opening to tackle him again.

Seconds later, the door had burst open, and the cops had stormed in—flashlights blinding, voices shouting. Detective Ramirez, a lean man with graying hair and sharp eyes, had taken charge, directing his team to secure Dante while another checked on us.

“Anyone hurt?” Ramirez had asked, his gaze flicking between me and Henry.

“He’s cut,” I’d said, pointing to Henry’s arm where blood seeped through his sleeve. “But we’re alive.”

“Paramedics are downstairs,” Ramirez had said, then turned to Dante, who’d spat blood onto the floor with a smirk. “You’re under arrest—attempted murder, arson, breaking and entering. Save your breath for the station.”

Dante had just chuckled, his eyes boring into mine as they cuffed him. “This ain’t the end, Felicia.”

The threat had lingered, chilling me even as they hauled him away. Then Henry’s phone had buzzed—the email about Sophia—and the weight of that news had nearly broken us both before his men arrived.

Back to the Present

We stepped into the hallway, the air thick with smoke and the buzz of voices. Downstairs, the parking lot was a circus—firefighters dousing the last of Henry’s car, cops cordoning off the area, neighbors gawking. Tommy led the way, clearing a path, while Jake and Rico flanked us like bodyguards.

Henry’s hand found mine, his grip tight despite the blood staining his fingers. “You okay?” he asked, his voice low, meant just for me.

“No,” I admitted, my throat raw. “You?”

He shook his head, his jaw tight. “Sophia…” He trailed off, the name a wound he couldn’t touch yet.

I squeezed his hand, guilt clawing at me. “We’ll figure it out. After this—after him.”

He nodded, but the strain in his eyes told me he wasn’t so sure. Dr. Ellis’s email replayed in my mind—Sophia’s relapse, her unstable condition. Henry had fought so hard to pull her out of that darkness, and now it was slipping away again. And here I was, dragging him into mine.

Tommy stopped us at the edge of the lot, his truck idling nearby. “Where to?” he asked, glancing between us. “Cops’ll want statements, but we can stall ’em.”

“My place,” Henry said. “It’s safer. For now.”

I didn’t argue. My apartment was a crime scene, a graveyard of broken things. I couldn’t stay there—not with Dante’s presence still lingering like a stain.

We piled into the truck, Henry and me in the back, his arm around my shoulders. The drive was silent, the city lights blurring past, but my mind wouldn’t quiet. Dante’s words—“See you soon”—echoed, a promise I couldn’t shake. Even in cuffs, he felt untouchable, like he’d already planned his next move.

When we reached Henry’s apartment—a cramped, cluttered place that smelled faintly of coffee and motor oil—he locked the door behind us. Tommy and the others stayed outside, keeping watch. It was just us now, the weight of the night crashing down.

Henry sank onto the couch, dragging a hand over his face. “I can’t lose her, Felicia,” he said, his voice breaking. “Sophia—she’s all I’ve got left of family. And now this…”

I sat beside him, my heart aching. “She’s not lost yet. The doctor said they’re adjusting her program. There’s still time.”

He laughed, a bitter sound. “Time? I’ve been telling myself that for months. She’s slipping, and I’m not there. I’m here, fighting him, and she’s—” He stopped, his fists clenching.

“You can’t be everywhere,” I said softly, touching his arm. “But you’re not alone in this. I’m here. We’ll get through it—Dante, Sophia, all of it.”

His eyes met mine, raw and searching. “You mean that?”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice steady despite the tears threatening again. “I love you, Henry. I’m not running anymore.”

He pulled me into him, his arms wrapping tight, and I felt the shudder in his chest as he held on. “I love you too,” he murmured into my hair. “God, I do.”

For a moment, it was enough—just us, holding each other in the wreckage. But then his phone buzzed again, shattering the quiet.

He groaned, pulling it out, but his face went pale as he read. “It’s Ramirez.”

“What?” I asked, dread pooling in my gut.

He turned the screen to me. A text: “Dante escaped custody. Transport van crashed—suspect foul play. Stay vigilant.”

My breath stopped. Escaped. He was out there again, free, coming for us.

Henry’s hand tightened around mine, his voice hard. “We’re not waiting for him to find us. We end this—our way.”

I nodded, fear and fury twisting together. Dante thought he’d won. He was wrong.