Chapter 1 — After Five Years
Dante's POV
"Boss," Nikolai's voice cut through the silence like a blade. "We found her."
For a long moment, Dante didn't move. The words hung in the air — heavy, unreal.
He slowly set down his glass of whiskey, the amber liquid trembling slightly with his heartbeat.
"Send the location," he said, his voice low, cold, and dangerous.
"Yes, boss. I'll text it right now."
When the line went dead, Dante leaned back in his leather chair, staring blankly at the city lights stretching beneath his penthouse window. His reflection stared back — hard eyes, a shadow of a man carved by power, regret, and five years of silence.
Elara.
The name alone was enough to twist something deep inside him. Five years since she vanished without a word. Five years of searching, digging, and bleeding just to find a trace.
And now, she'd been found.
He picked up his coat, sliding it on with slow precision, and murmured under his breath, "Finally… I have her."
---
Elara's POV
The restaurant buzzed with the steady hum of late-night customers. Laughter, clinking glasses, and the faint scent of roasted garlic filled the air. Elara moved between tables, balancing a tray of dishes, her practiced smile never faltering.
She was tired — the kind of tired that lived in the bones, quiet and constant. But it was better than fear. Better than running.
"Table seven wants their bill," her co-worker whispered as she passed.
"Got it," Elara said softly.
She turned, brushing a strand of hair from her face, and froze.
He was standing at the entrance — tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a tailored black coat. His eyes found hers instantly.
For a heartbeat, everything around her went silent.
Her hands trembled, the tray slipping slightly before she caught it. It couldn't be him. Not here. Not now. Not after all these years.
But it was.
Dante Volkov.
The man she once loved. The man she ran from.
He hadn't changed much — maybe sharper, colder. The kind of man who didn't need to speak to command a room. Every step he took toward her felt like the ground was closing in.
Elara forced a breath, setting the tray down on the counter. "I'll take a short break," she muttered to her boss, who just nodded, oblivious to the storm about to unfold.
She turned, walking out the back door into the alley — cold air slapping her face, her pulse racing. She needed air. She needed—
"Running again?"
The voice froze her mid-step.
She turned slowly, and there he was — leaning against the brick wall, eyes dark and unreadable.
"Dante," she whispered. His name felt foreign on her tongue, like a ghost she wasn't supposed to summon.
"Five years," he said quietly, stepping closer. "Five damn years, Elara. And this is where I find you? Serving tables?"
Her throat tightened. "I'm not doing this with you."
"You don't have a choice."
He stepped in, close enough that she could feel his warmth through the cold. "You disappeared, Elara. No calls, no letters, nothing. Do you have any idea what that did to me?"
"I had my reasons," she said, turning away.
He grabbed her wrist — not harshly, but firmly enough to stop her. "Then tell me. Tell me why you ran."
Elara's lips parted, but the words wouldn't come. How could she tell him? That she'd been pregnant. That she'd left to protect their child from his violent world — from the enemies that shadowed his name.
So she said the only thing she could.
"Because I didn't want to die."
That made him still.
Her voice trembled. "I didn't want to be another casualty in your war, Dante. I thought I could love you… I really did. But then I saw who you really were. What you were capable of. I didn't sign up to live in fear every day."
His jaw clenched, pain flashing through his eyes before he hid it behind his usual coldness. "You think I would've let anything happen to you?"
"It's not about what you'd let happen," she said softly. "It's about what always does. You can't control that world, Dante. You can't control everything."
For a moment, the silence between them was deafening — full of everything they never said.
Finally, he whispered, "You could've told me where you were. You could've trusted me."
"I did," she said, meeting his gaze. "Once."
That hit harder than any bullet.
He looked away, exhaling slowly. "I've spent years searching for you, Elara. I tore apart cities. Paid people, threatened others, all because I thought maybe—" He stopped himself, swallowing hard. "I thought maybe you were hurt. Dead."
Her heart twisted. She never wanted this. Never wanted him broken, or lost in the emptiness she'd left behind.
"I'm fine," she said quietly. "You found me. Now, please, just… leave me alone."
But Dante wasn't the type to walk away from unfinished stories.
He took another step closer, lowering his voice. "You think I came all this way to turn around and pretend I didn't see you? No, Elara. You owe me an explanation."
She shook her head, eyes glistening. "I don't owe you anything anymore."
"Yes, you do." His tone softened, raw. "You owe me the truth."
Her breath hitched. "The truth would destroy everything."
"Then let it," he said fiercely. "Because living without you already did."
Elara's heart ached. She looked into his eyes — the same eyes that once made her feel safe, the same ones that haunted every dream since she left.
But she couldn't let him back in. Not now. Not when Lia existed.
"I can't," she whispered, stepping back. "Please, Dante. Just let me live my life."
His expression hardened again, the walls slamming back into place. "You think you can hide from me again?"
"I'm not hiding. I'm surviving."
He stared at her for a long moment — her trembling hands, her tired eyes — and something inside him cracked. But he wouldn't beg. Not yet.
He turned slightly, his voice low and final. "This isn't over."
She closed her eyes as he walked away, fighting the tears that threatened to fall.
When she opened them again, the alley was empty — but her past had already caught up.
---
Dante's POV
As he got into his car, Nikolai glanced at him through the rearview mirror. "Boss, what now?"
Dante's voice was quiet, lethal. "Keep eyes on her. I want to know everything — where she lives, who she talks to, where she goes. No one makes a move without my order."
"Yes, boss."
He looked out the window, the city lights reflecting in his cold eyes.
Five years ago, she walked away from him.
Now, he would make sure she never could again.