The Devil Returns
The mansion burned like a beacon in the night.
Lucian's convoy roared through the gates, headlights cutting through the smoke. The wrought-iron bars were twisted from explosives, guards' bodies strewn across the driveway like broken dolls. Flames licked at the grand facade, devouring windows, painting the sky in hues of orange and black.
Lucian stepped out before the car even stopped. His black suit was crisp, but his face—his eyes—were that of a demon unleashed. His men fanned out behind him, weapons ready, but he didn't wait for orders. His fury needed no strategy.
"Clear me a path," he snarled.
Alessandro fired the first shot, dropping one of Dante's men crawling across the courtyard. Lucian stormed forward, dual pistols in his hands, each shot deliberate, final. His bullets sang vengeance, and with every kill he carved himself closer to the heart of his home.
Gunfire erupted in return. Bullets sparked against stone, glass shattered overhead, the air filled with smoke and screams. Lucian moved through it like a phantom, unflinching, ruthless. His only thought: Elena. Isabella.
---
Inside the safe room, Elena startled at the sound of distant gunfire shifting rhythm. These weren't the staccato bursts of defenders struggling to survive. This was something else. This was thunder rolling in.
Her heart knew before her mind dared hope.
"Lucian," she breathed.
On the monitors, she saw a dark figure cutting down Dante's men with surgical precision. His movements were terrifying, graceful, inhuman. Relief surged, colliding with fear—he was here, but would he survive the onslaught?
The steel door shuddered again under the assault of crowbars and drills. Sparks flew. Isabella screamed and clung tighter. Elena kissed her forehead, whispering: "Papa's coming. Hold on, baby. Papa's coming."
---
Lucian's boots crushed shattered glass as he entered the east wing. Smoke choked the halls, bodies littered the floor—his men, Dante's men, all fallen in the carnage. He stepped over them, unblinking, his ears tuned to the faintest cry.
"Elena!" His roar shook the burning walls.
A reply came—not from her, but from a mocking voice above.
"Lucian Moretti, always dramatic."
Dante stood at the top of the grand staircase, gun in hand, flanked by three soldiers. The firelight painted him in gold and crimson, like some fallen angel savoring destruction.
"You're late," Dante sneered. "Your empire's already ash. Your men are bleeding out. And your precious little family—" He smirked. "How long do you think that safe room holds against fire?"
Lucian's chest heaved, rage and terror coiling tight. "If you touched them…"
Dante's smile widened. "What? You'll kill me? You've been trying for months."
Lucian didn't answer. He fired.
The bullet clipped Dante's shoulder, spinning him sideways. His men opened fire in response, forcing Lucian into cover behind a crumbling pillar. Plaster rained down, the walls groaned, and the battle resumed—intimate, personal, every shot fired with hatred.
---
In the basement, the door finally groaned under pressure. A jagged crack appeared where the drill bit forced its way through. Elena's blood ran cold.
They were seconds away.
She looked at the cabinet of weapons Lucian had stocked inside: pistols, ammo, even a shotgun. Her hands trembled as she reached for one, forcing her mind into focus.
If they break through… you fight. You fight for Isabella.
She loaded the pistol the way Lucian had once shown her, his hands guiding hers, his voice steady: Don't flinch. Don't hesitate. If you aim, you shoot to end it.
Now those words echoed like a lifeline.
She kissed Isabella's curls, setting her behind the supply crate. "Stay there, my love. Cover your ears. Whatever happens, don't move until Papa comes."
The child's wide eyes filled with tears, but she nodded, trusting.
The lock cracked louder. Metal bent. Elena raised the pistol with both hands, her heartbeat hammering in her ears.
If Dante's men thought she was weak, they were about to learn what a mother's desperation looked like.
---
Upstairs, Lucian unleashed his fury. One of Dante's soldiers fell with a bullet to the throat. Another tried to flank him but was met with a knife between the ribs.
The last one lunged, pinning Lucian against the banister. They struggled, fists, elbows, snarls. Lucian's rage gave him the edge. With a brutal twist, he snapped the man's neck and let the body fall down the staircase.
Now only Dante remained, wounded but grinning.
"You can't stop what's coming, Moretti," Dante panted, blood dripping from his shoulder. "You think this is about your little family? No. This is about empires. You've ruled too long. You've made too many enemies. Even if I don't finish this tonight, someone else will."
Lucian stepped forward, gun raised, voice like steel. "Then let them all come. I'll bury every last one. But you—" His eyes burned. "You don't walk out of here alive."
Dante laughed, wild and cruel. "We'll see."
With that, he threw himself backward through the flames, crashing through a window and vanishing into the night, leaving Lucian cursing into the smoke.
---
The basement door burst open.
Elena fired.
The first intruder fell, shock etched across his face as he hit the floor. The second roared, raising his weapon, but she fired again, panic and resolve fusing into deadly precision. He collapsed in a heap, blood pooling around him.
The third hesitated, eyes darting from her trembling frame to the child behind her. "Drop it, lady, and maybe I—"
Her shot cut him off, silencing him forever.
The room reeked of gunpowder and death. Elena's hands shook violently, but she didn't lower the gun until silence swallowed the basement.
Then footsteps. Heavy, familiar.
"Elena!"
Her breath hitched. Relief flooded her body so hard she nearly dropped the pistol. The steel door swung wider, and there he was—Lucian, bloodied, furious, alive.
He saw the bodies. Then her. Then Isabella peeking from behind the crate.
For a heartbeat, he froze, chest heaving, eyes dark with too many emotions to name.
Elena lowered the pistol, tears spilling. "You came."
Lucian crossed the room in three strides, pulling them both into his arms, crushing them to his chest. His lips pressed to Elena's hair, then Isabella's crown. His voice was a ragged whisper.
"I'll never be late again."
---
But even as he held them, Elena knew the truth. Dante was still out there. And next time, he wouldn't just come for their home.
He would come for their hearts.