The Devil Strikes Back
The mansion had been quieter since Lucian's strike at the docks, but Elena felt no comfort in the silence. It wasn't peace—it was the calm before a storm. She had spent the entire morning pacing the nursery, unable to shake the unease that gnawed at her.
Isabella was on the rug, building towers out of colorful blocks. The child's laughter was sweet and innocent, a sound that Elena clung to like oxygen. But every creak of the floorboards, every whisper of the wind outside the windows made her jump.
Lucian had come home at dawn, bloodstained and silent. He had kissed Isabella's forehead, brushed Elena's hand, and locked himself away in his study. His face had been carved in stone, and Elena hadn't dared to break through.
Now, as she knelt by her daughter, Elena prayed silently. Please, let this end soon. Let him come back to us whole.
Her prayer was cut short by the shrill ring of the phone.
Elena stiffened. It wasn't the secure line Lucian used. This was the landline in the hall, one almost nobody had access to.
She stood, her pulse racing, and lifted the receiver. "Hello?"
A voice slithered through the line like poison. "Mrs. Moretti."
Elena's breath caught. Dante.
"Don't hang up," he continued smoothly. "If you do, I'll make sure the pretty little girl playing at your feet never laughs again."
Her blood turned to ice. "If you touch her—"
Dante chuckled, low and mocking. "Relax. I wouldn't dirty my hands on a child. But you should know… her world is not as safe as you think. Walls crack. Guards fail. And men, no matter how loyal, can be bought."
Elena clutched the phone tighter, forcing her voice steady. "What do you want?"
"I want you to listen," Dante said. "Your husband thinks last night was a victory. He burned my docks, destroyed my men, and now he struts around believing he's untouchable. But while he plays with fire, I play with hearts."
There was a pause, and then a faint sound filtered through the line—muffled sobs.
Elena's stomach dropped. No.
The voice on the other end grew clearer. "Elena?"
Her knees buckled. "Mama?"
It was her mother's voice. Fragile, trembling, filled with terror.
"Elena, help me… they—" The line muffled, a hand clearly dragging her mother back.
Elena's vision swam. Her mother, whom she hadn't spoken to in months after the family distanced themselves from Lucian, was now in Dante's hands.
"See?" Dante purred. "While Lucian sets fire to my empire, I take pieces of yours. Tit for tat."
Elena's voice broke. "Please, don't hurt her—"
"Her life depends on you," Dante interrupted coldly. "Not him. You. I want you to come to me, Elena. Alone. Tonight."
Elena's chest seized. "And if I don't?"
"Then I'll send you her fingers in a pretty little box. One by one, until she has none left."
Her hand shook so violently the receiver slipped. She caught it before it fell, gasping for air.
"You have until midnight," Dante said. "Don't tell Lucian. Don't bring guards. Just you. Otherwise… well, you'll recognize the screams."
The line went dead.
---
Elena stood frozen, the phone pressed against her ear long after the dial tone buzzed. Her body shook with panic. Isabella toddled up, tugging at her dress, holding up one of her toy blocks with a proud smile.
Elena sank to the floor, gathering her daughter in her arms, hiding her face in the child's soft hair. Tears slid down her cheeks silently.
She was trapped in a nightmare.
---
By the time Lucian emerged from his study that evening, Elena had plastered on a mask of calm. Her heart pounded in her throat, but she forced herself to smile when Isabella squealed and ran to her father.
Lucian lifted his daughter into his arms, his stony face softening as Isabella babbled about her toys. He kissed her cheek, holding her close, before setting her down again.
Elena's eyes lingered on him. He looked exhausted—dark circles under his eyes, his shirt still smelling faintly of smoke and gunpowder. He was carrying too much already. Could she risk adding this burden?
"Lucian," she said gently, "you should rest."
He studied her carefully, his eyes narrowing. "You're pale. What's wrong?"
Elena forced a small smile. "Just tired. It's been a long day."
He stepped closer, brushing his knuckles against her cheek. His eyes, though hard, softened just for her. "Sleep with Isabella tonight. I'll keep watch."
Elena nodded, her throat burning with unshed tears. She wanted to tell him. She wanted to collapse into his arms and let him carry this weight.
But if she did, her mother would die.
So she bit her tongue, kissed his hand, and whispered, "Goodnight."
---
Hours later, when the mansion lay in silence and Lucian's footsteps echoed faintly down the hall, Elena stood in the nursery, gazing at Isabella's sleeping form. The little girl's chest rose and fell peacefully, her tiny fist curled around a stuffed bear.
Elena's heart broke as she bent to kiss her forehead.
"I'll come back, my love," she whispered. "I promise."
She straightened, pulled on her coat, and slipped out into the night—alone.
---
Across the city, Dante was waiting.
The warehouse he had chosen was dark, lit only by a single bulb swinging overhead. Chains clinked faintly in the distance.
At the center of the room, Elena's mother sat bound to a chair, gagged and terrified.
Dante poured himself a glass of wine, smiling as he checked his watch. "Let's see if our little queen is brave enough to come without her king."
The game had changed. And for the first time, Elena Moretti was walking straight into the devil's den.