Chapter 7 The Mark
Serena's POV
I crashed into the chair right in front of me with a loud thud.
Of every crap he’s pulled today, whatever just made Dante slam the brakes like that has to be killer serious.
“What the hell, Dante!” I yelled after finding my voice. I scrambled upright with my heart practically in my mouth.
My palms stung from smacking the seat. I twisted around, trying to see whatever could make Dante freeze like that.
He wasn’t moving. He just sat there with his hands locked tightly on the wheel, staring through the windshield like he’d seen a ghost or something worse.
“Dante, what is it—”
The engine roared back to life before I could finish. And before I knew it, we shot forward, racing towards a spot off the entrance I hadn’t even noticed. The sudden speed slammed me back into the seat.
“Where are you going?!” I shrieked, trying as I could to pull myself up.
“Hold on tight!" He growled in a strained voice, and punched the gas harder, sending my tummy flying back.
I whipped around just in time to spot whatever it was he was chasing. A black panel van peeling out from behind a stack of containers. Same paint, same dented rear bumper. The mysterious hoodie guy’s van.
“Oh shit,” I breathed out.
And before I could steady myself, Dante stepped in it.
He cut the wheel hard to his left, drifting us around the corner of the warehouse like we were on rails. Tensions flew as the side mirror flipped a dumpster at the side as Dante flashed through.
The van had a head start, but Dante drove like a possessed man. He floored it, closing the gap in seconds.
The cars broke out of the rail yard and onto the main road, zooming past people, streetlights and cars like they were slugs.
Dante shifted gears manually. I didn’t even know this thing had a manual mode!
The Escalade snarled louder, eating the road in seconds.
The van driver wasn’t some amateur. He took a sharp right onto an access road without braking, the rear end of his van slid perfectly, before he punched it again, and disappeared into traffic like nothing happened.
Dante followed suit, cutting off the track with his horn blaring wildly.
"Ahh!" I screamed, but he didn’t flinch a bit.
We hit the end of the road, then suddenly, trees swarmed the headlights ahead of us. We had reached the woods.
The van dove straight into the forest service road like it knew the very back of his hand. Dante stayed on his trial, whipping past branches as they hit the roof.
Dante was about gaining on him when a gunshot tore through the air before hitting the glass. It didn't crack—bulletproof, but that's a warning.
The second bullet crashed into the spot I was staring at, scaring the shit out of me. I ducked instinctively, even though it didn't break.
“Stay down!” Dante barked with one hand on the wheel and the other, drawing his own pistol from his trousers. He rolled his window down, leaned out, and started returning fire.
The van swiveled, spraying dirt, then hit the brakes hard suddenly. Dante had to yank the wheel to avoid ramming into it. We went airborne over a dip, and landed with a heavy crash. I bit my tongue, tasting blood instantly.
Another rain of bullets came from the van. One round found the front tire, we felt the pull immediately. Dante wrestled to get the SUV straight again, growling Italian curses in the air.
He forcefully floored it again, pulling alongside the van for a split second. We flashed across the driver’s side for a second—long enough for me to catch the lower half of his face before he swerved hard, trying to ram us off the trail.
Dante countered, drifting us sideways in a flash, sending dirt everywhere. He then powered out of it like we were in one of the Fast & Furious episodes.
For a heartbeat we were neck-and-neck, both vehicles roaring and firing bullets across. I could hear the mystery guy laughing—actually laughing—over the engines.
Then the bastard did something insane.
He cut the road, hit the brakes suddenly and veered off the trail between the trees... all in seconds. Dante slammed the brakes too, but not fast enough as the Escalade skidded sideways.
We watched the van’s rear once—then nothing. It zoomed off.
Dante refused to let it end that way. "Hold on tight!" He yelled over his shoulders before pushing the gears and plunging after him.
For thirty seconds it was pure chaos, branches cracking against the windshield, bullets flying across dangerously, threatening the bulletproof glass.
Dante drove purely out of rage. Another burst of gunfire from the van tore down a tree right before us. Dante skipped to the side, narrowly avoiding the fall of the tree.
I caught the van whipping around a tight bend, crashed through a fallen log, and somehow kept going.
Dante followed without a single thought.
The van swiveled to the right before taking a sharp left turn, so fast it went up on two wheels. Dante took a right turn instead. By the time he realized and tried to correct, the van had vanished.
He stopped, looking around before punching the steering wheel so hard the horn blared. We remained at a spot in a small clearing with the engine on and steam spilling from under the hood.
Dante threw the door open after a while and stepped out, raising his gun to the air and firing at anything and everything in sight.
“Figlio di puttana!” He roared in a frustrated manner for the first time today.
I stumbled out after him, even though my legs kinda felt wobbly. He was losing it—kicking the tires, slamming the hood with the butt of his pistol, and pacing around like a caged animal.
“Dante—” I started.
“Stay in the fucking car!” He snapped, but there was no hate behind it anymore—just exhaustion.
I didn’t listen. I walked over and put a hand on his arm. He flinched like I’d burned him, then let the gun drop to his side. His chest heaved heavily.
After a minute, he leaned forward, putting his palms flat on the warm hood, and hanging his head over his hands.
His shoulders kept shaking—not crying, just… angry.
I stayed quiet. I’d never seen him like this. Never thought I would.
Eventually he straightened, his eyes scanning the ground. Something caught his eyes between the leaves. He lowered slowly, brushed the dirt aside, and picked up something.
He held it between thumb and forefinger, turning it slowly till his eyes caught every inch of it. His eyes settled on a particular spot, staring deeply before every ounce of color drained from his face.