The safe house was a nondescript apartment in the city's industrial fringe, hidden behind a storefront that sold antique clocks. Inside, the air was still and smelled of lemon oil and old paper. It was a fortress of silence, far from the chaotic echoes of the museum.
Elena kicked the door shut with her bare, bruised heel. She was still supporting Dante, his weight heavy and leaning dangerously into her. His breathing was a wet, ragged sound that made her stomach twist.
"The sofa," he grunted, his voice barely a shadow. "Drop me there."
Elena didn't "drop" him. She lowered him with a strength she didn't know she possessed, her emerald dress rustling like a dying forest. As soon as he hit the leather cushions, Dante's head fell back, his face a ghostly shade of gray. The white shirt was no longer white; it was a sodden, crimson rag.
"Kitchen... cabinet," Dante managed to gasp, his eyes flickering. "Medical kit. Black bag. Get it."
Elena didn't hesitate. She sprinted to the kitchen, her mind racing with a strange, cold efficiency. She found the bag, along with a bottle of high-proof whiskey and a bowl of water. When she returned, Dante was trying to sit up, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.
"Sit still," Elena commanded.
It wasn't a request. It was the same tone her father used to use with his subordinates, but without the arrogance. It was pure, raw authority. Dante paused, his dark eyes meeting hers. For a second, the predator looked at the prey and saw something he didn't recognize.
"I can... do it myself," he wheezed.
"You can barely breathe, Dante. Shut up and let me work."
She knelt between his legs, the midnight emerald silk of her skirt spreading across the floor. She took a pair of scissors from the kit and began to cut away his shirt. The fabric was stuck to the wound—a jagged, deep slice along his ribs. As she peeled the cloth back, Dante hissed, his muscles jumping under his skin.
Elena's hands trembled for a heartbeat, but she forced them to stay steady. She poured the whiskey over the wound. Dante's body arched, a strangled groan escaping his lips, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the sofa's edge.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, though her eyes remained focused on the task. "But you're not dying on my watch. I still owe you a year, remember?"
As she cleaned the blood away, she saw them. Not just the fresh wound, but the map of his past. Across his chest and shoulders were old, silvered scars—long, thin lines that looked like they had been made by a whip or a thin rod.
Elena froze. Her fingers trailed near one of the marks, her breath hitching. She knew these marks. She had seen her father's security team carry those specific tactical batons.
"Five years ago," she whispered, her voice trembling. "The night you were sent away. My father... he told me you had stolen the Vance family jewels. He said you fled before they could catch you."
Dante let out a sharp, dry laugh that turned into a cough. "Jewels? I didn't even know where your mother kept them. I was too busy trying to hide the fact that your father was funneling millions into Thorne's offshore accounts."
He looked down at her, his gaze intense even through the haze of pain. "I tried to tell him I wouldn't let the company collapse. I thought... I thought he'd listen because I was loyal. But your father didn't want loyalty, Elena. He wanted a scapegoat."
"He beat you," she realized, the horror dawning on her. "He didn't just fire you. He tried to break you."
"He succeeded," Dante said softly. "The boy who loved the princess died in that cellar. What came out was just a man who knew how to wait for his turn."
Elena looked at the scars, then at the fresh blood on her hands. The guilt was a physical weight, pressing into her lungs. But beneath the guilt, a new fire was stoking—a cold, sharp anger toward the man she had called father.
"He lied to me about everything," she said, her voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. "He made me an accomplice in my own ignorance."
She began to stitch the wound. She wasn't a doctor, but she had seen Leo's nurses do this a dozen times at the clinic. She moved with a grim, focused determination. Dante watched her, his breathing beginning to level out.
"You're not as soft as I thought," he murmured, his hand moving reflexively toward her hair, though he pulled it back before touching her.
"Softness is a luxury for people who have a home to go back to," Elena replied, tying off the last stitch. She sat back on her heels, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. "I don't have a home anymore. I have a debt. And apparently, I have a secret I don't even know I'm carrying."
Dante leaned back, the color slowly returning to his lips. "The accounts. Thorne thinks you have the biometric key. Your father used a voice-recognition and retinal scan system for the high-level encryptions. He coded them to you, Elena. Without your consent, the money stays frozen forever."
"He used me as a lock," Elena said, a bitter smile touching her lips. "Even in death, he's still using me to protect his sins."
"And that's why you're the most valuable thing in this city," Dante said. He reached out then, his fingers actually touching her jaw this time. His skin was hot from the fever, but his touch was surprisingly gentle. "Thorne wants the money. The 'organization' Vane mentioned wants the blood. And I..."
"And you?" Elena asked, not pulling away. She leaned into his hand, her eyes locked on his. "Why did you really bid ten million, Dante? If you just wanted the money, you could have kidnapped me for much less."
Dante's gaze flickered. The cold, analytical mask slipped for a fraction of a second, revealing a void of longing and rage.
"Maybe I just wanted to see if the princess could survive in my world," he lied. But his thumb traced the curve of her lip with a tenderness that contradicted every word he spoke.
Elena didn't call him out on the lie. Instead, she stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the city lights. She saw her reflection in the glass—the emerald dress was ruined, her face was smudged with blood and dust, but her eyes... her eyes looked like Dante's.
"I won't be a lock anymore, Dante," she said, turning back to him. "And I won't be a shadow. If this money is what everyone wants, then I'm going to use it to buy back what's mine. Starting with my brother's safety. And ending with the people who think they can sell me like a piece of meat."
Dante looked at her, a slow, genuine smirk spreading across his face. It wasn't the smirk of a predator; it was the look of a man who had finally found a partner for the end of the world.
"Then we have work to do, Elena Vance."
As the night deepened, Elena stayed by his side, watching over him as he drifted into a fitful sleep. She held the gold pin in her hand, the sharp point glinting in the moonlight. She was no longer running. She was waiting. And for the first time in five years, she wasn't afraid of the ghosts. She was ready to become one.