Chapter 69 NOT DANTE

Chapter 69 NOT DANTE

The knock comes at the wrong time.

Not late enough to be suspicious. Not early enough to be comforting. Just… wrong.

I’m standing in the kitchen of the safe house, barefoot, my phone face-down on the counter where I left it after checking it for the fifth time in two minutes. Dante said he’d come. He didn’t say when. With him, time stretches and bends until you stop questioning it.

I wipe my hands on my shorts and exhale.

It’s him, I tell myself.

Of course it’s him.

The apartment is quiet in that expensive, insulated way. Too quiet. Even the city outside sounds muted, like it’s being filtered through glass and distance. I walk toward the door, each step measured, heart tapping against my ribs like it’s impatient with me.

The knock comes again. Firmer this time.

I reach the door and pause, fingers hovering over the handle.

Something pricks at the back of my neck. A feeling. Instinct. The kind you get when you realize you’re alone in a room you thought was safe.

I shake it off.

Dante does that to me. He makes danger feel normal.

I unlock the door and pull it open.

The man standing there is not Dante.

The realization hits instantly, brutally, like cold water thrown in my face.

He’s tall. towering and solid. Broad shoulders beneath a dark jacket, hair cropped short, face unfamiliar and unremarkable in a way that feels intentional. No smile. No warmth. His eyes flick over me, sharp and assessing, and then he steps forward.

Too fast.

My breath catches. “Can I help you?”

He doesn’t answer.

His hand comes up, clamps around my wrist, and yanks me forward.

The door slams shut behind me.

Everything fractures at once.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I shout, trying to wrench my arm free. Panic floods my veins, hot and immediate. My heart slams against my chest, screaming at me to run, to fight, to do something.

He doesn’t flinch.

His grip tightens, fingers digging into my skin as he pulls me toward the stairwell. I stumble, bare feet sliding on the polished floor.

“Let go of me!” My voice cracks, sharp and high. “Let go!”

He says my name.

Not gently. Not kindly.

Just enough to stop me.

“Anya.”

I freeze.

My blood turns to ice.

He knows who I am.

“Don't fight this or it'll be way worse than I intended.”

That single fact lands heavier than the pain in my wrist, heavier than the fear clawing up my throat. This isn’t random. This isn’t a mistake.

This is deliberate.

I twist, trying to look at him properly now, trying to memorize his face, trying to find something I can use later if I survive this.

“Who are you?” I demand.

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer.

He drags me down the stairs, fast and relentless. My shoulder slams into the wall as we turn the corner. Pain blooms sharp and bright, but adrenaline dulls it almost instantly.

I dig my heels into the floor. “Stop! You can’t do this!”

He laughs then. Just once. A short, humorless sound.

“Oh, I can.”

The stairwell door bursts open and cold night air hits my face. The parking lot is dimly lit, shadows pooling between cars. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails and fades.

Hope flares in my chest.

People. Lights. Noise.

I open my mouth to scream.

He moves faster.

One hand clamps over my mouth, cutting the sound off before it can escape. The other arm snakes around my waist, lifting me partially off the ground. My feet scrape uselessly as he hauls me toward a black car parked near the far edge of the lot.

I bite down hard on his hand.

He grunts, swears under his breath, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he shoves me against the car, the metal cold and unforgiving against my back.

“Behave,” he murmurs, low and dangerous, his face inches from mine now. “Unless you want this to get ugly.”

He warns again, this time I can actually hear the impatience and annoyance in his voice.
My chest heaves. My lungs burn. Tears sting my eyes, not from weakness but from rage, from fear, from the sheer unfairness of it.

I try to knee him.

He anticipates it, shifting his weight and pinning my legs with his own. His forearm presses against my throat, not hard enough to choke me, just enough to remind me how easily he could.