Chapter 7: The Mercy of a Queen
The room smelled of antiseptic and iron. Marco had retreated to the door, leaving Elena alone with the wounded king. Dante lay back against the leather sofa, his chest heaving, his skin a ghostly shade of grey.
Elena's hands were stained crimson. She worked with the precision of a musician, her fingers—usually reserved for the delicate strings of a violin—now pressing down on torn flesh.
"You're surprisingly steady," Dante rasped, his eyes fluttering open. The icy blue was clouded with pain, yet they never left her face.
"I've spent my life practicing for hours until my fingers bled," Elena said, her voice a low, rhythmic hum. "Pain isn't new to me, Dante. But this... this is different."
"It's the price of the crown," he whispered. He reached up, his hand hovering near her face before dropping, too weak to complete the gesture. "They think I'm fading. The Morettis... they smelled blood."
"Was it worth it?" Elena asked, looking at the scattered photos of her on the floor, now spotted with his blood. "All of this? The stalking, the setup, the war? Just for a girl who hates the sight of you?"
Dante let out a ragged, dry laugh that turned into a wince. "I didn't want a girl who liked me, Elena. I wanted a woman who was real. In my world, everything is bought or faked. But you... your fire is the only thing that's ever felt honest."
He grabbed her wrist, his grip surprisingly strong for a man losing consciousness. "If I die tonight, Marco has orders. He'll get you out. A new name. A new life. Away from your father, away from the Syndicate."
Elena paused, a wet cloth hovering over his shoulder. "You'd let me go?"
"I'd rather you be free and hating me than dead because of me." His eyes searched hers, searching for a spark of something—mercy, perhaps. "But if I live... I'm never letting you leave."
The honesty of his confession hit her harder than his threats ever had. She realized then that Dante De Luca wasn't just a monster; he was a man who had built a cage for himself long before he built one for her.
Suddenly, a heavy thud echoed from the hallway, followed by the sound of a struggle. Elena stood up, the letter opener from the desk still gripped in her pocket.
The door burst open. It wasn't the Morettis. It was Lorenzo, the man from the gala, his face twisted in a sneer. He held a silenced pistol, and his eyes weren't on Dante. They were on Elena.
"The Wolf is down," Lorenzo gloated, stepping into the room. "And his little lamb is all alone. Move away from him, sweetie. I'm going to finish what the warehouse hit started, and then you're coming with me. I have a much more... interesting use for you than Dante does."
Dante tried to lunge forward, but his body betrayed him. He collapsed back, a guttural growl of helpless rage tearing from his throat. "Touch her... and I will unmake you..."
Elena didn't scream. She didn't hide. She looked at Dante—the man who had ruined her life—and then at Lorenzo, who represented a far more certain death.
She stepped in front of Dante, shielding his wounded body with her own.
"He isn't finished," Elena said, her voice cold and sharp as a violin string under tension. "And you're in the wrong house."