The apartment was silent, but Elena couldn't relax.
She sat on the edge of the velvet couch like it might swallow her whole. The rain had stopped outside, but the storm inside her chest hadn't. She kept hearing Dante's voice in her head:
> "You're under my protection now. That means I take responsibility for everything that happens to you."
What kind of man said that like it was a threat and a vow in the same breath?
She wandered into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and wasn't surprised to find it perfectly stocked. Bottled water, fresh fruit, organic meals that looked like they belonged to someone else's life. She hadn't even seen him make a call. Yet everything had appeared like magic.
No—not magic.
Power.
This was what power looked like: silent, absolute, inescapable.
---
She spent the next hour pacing the apartment, checking the windows, testing the front door. Locked. Reinforced. Secure. She hated how that made her feel... safe.
Elena finally changed into one of the silk sleep sets that had been left for her in the bedroom drawer—still with the tag on. No one had touched them. No one but him.
The moment she lay down, sleep refused to come.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the man on his knees, begging for his life. And Dante—calm, unbothered—pulling the trigger.
How could someone who killed so easily… also stock a fridge with her favorite brand of almond milk?
---
It was sometime past midnight when she heard it.
The click of the lock.
She sat up instantly, heart in her throat. The door creaked open.
And then… he was there.
Dante stepped into the apartment like a shadow returning home. His black coat was damp, his hair tousled slightly from the wind. He looked exhausted, but no less dangerous.
> "You're awake," he said, noticing her silhouette from the bedroom doorway.
> "Hard to sleep in a cage," she shot back.
He didn't smile. But his expression softened a fraction.
> "I assume you searched the place?"
> "Every drawer."
> "Good. That's smart."
> "Wasn't asking for your approval."
Dante stepped inside the living room, removing his coat and laying it over the arm of a chair. Underneath, his black dress shirt clung to him, unbuttoned at the collar. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing inked skin—tattoos in sharp, precise lines. Like everything else about him.
> "I had to make sure they understood," he said suddenly.
> "Who?"
> "The men who saw you leave that warehouse."
Her stomach turned.
> "Did you kill them?"
He met her eyes. "Would it matter if I had?"
> "It should."
He came closer. "Would you sleep better if they were alive and hunting you?"
Silence.
> "I didn't think so."
---
Elena wrapped her arms around herself and leaned against the doorway. She was trembling again, though she hated that he could probably see it.
> "I don't want to be part of this," she whispered.
> "You already are."
> "I didn't choose this."
> "Neither did I."
That caught her off guard.
> "What do you mean?"
Dante didn't answer right away. He walked to the liquor cabinet, poured himself a drink—whiskey, neat—and stared into the glass like it held a truth he hadn't faced in years.
> "You think I wanted this life?" he said finally. "I was born into it. I was twelve the first time I saw someone bleed out in front of me. Fourteen when I took my first hit. Nineteen when I buried my brother in a river he was meant to rule."
He turned to her, eyes unreadable.
> "This isn't a life. It's a legacy. One I didn't ask for, but I bear it. Because if I don't—someone worse will."
Elena didn't respond. She didn't know how.
Because in that moment, he wasn't just a monster in a suit.
He was a man.
One whose life had been written in blood long before she stepped into it.
---
> "You said I'm under your protection," she murmured. "What does that actually mean?"
> "It means no one touches you. Not without going through me."
> "And what if you're the one I'm afraid of?"
His eyes darkened slightly.
> "Then you're smarter than most."
---
He took a step forward, and she didn't move.
Another.
Now they were only a breath apart.
His voice dropped to a low whisper. "But I won't hurt you, Elena. Not unless you try to run. And even then, I'd only bring you back."
> "Why?" she breathed.
> "Because you're mine now."
---
The words echoed in the silence between them. Not angry. Not possessive. Just true.
She should've slapped him.
She should've screamed.
But instead… she trembled.
Because some dark, buried part of her—the part that still felt cold from fear—was starting to believe that maybe being his… might be safer than being free.