The bound shooter lifts his chin defiantly, blood dried on his cheek. He doesn’t answer.
Dante’s tone sharpens. “Who gave the order to attack my Underboss?”
Another flinch from Elena—tiny but real. My jaw grinds. The shooter smirks.
Rocco steps forward, done with patience. “Boss?” Dante nods once. That’s all Rocco needs. He grabs the chair, yanks the man up by the collar, and slams him against the nearest wall. The man grunts, coughing, but still smiling like he knows something we don’t. Rocco presses a knife to the exact spot on the shooter’s ribs where he himself was cut earlier. “Let’s try this again,” Rocco growls. “Who sent you?” Nothing. Only that same damn smile. Rocco presses harder.
The shooter laughs. Actually laughs. “You really don’t know, do you?” he rasps. “You have no fucking clue what’s coming.”
Dante steps in closer, voice now a blade. “What does that mean? Who are you working for?”
The shooter turns his head toward me then… And the smile widens. “You should check on your port boy,” he whispers.
My blood runs cold.
Rocco shoves him harder. “What port boy?”
The shooter’s eyes glint with something twisted. “Si-mon.” He sing-songs.
Elena stiffens beside me.
Rocco snarls, “Simon? What about him?”
The man’s grin is sickening. “He’s dead.”
Silence detonates in the room. My breath stops. Dante stills. Rocco’s knife digs deeper.
“Liar,” Rocco snaps. “Simon would never—”
“He’s dead,” the shooter says again, almost joyously.
My pulse spikes dangerously.
“Who?” Dante demands. “Who killed him? Who gave the—”
But the shooter cuts him off. “No more questions.” And then—Before any of us can react—He leans forward. Hard. Right into Rocco’s knife. The blade sinks deep into his side.
Rocco curses and tries to pull back, but it’s too late.
The shooter shudders once—blood blooming dark across his shirt—and smiles through a final choking breath. “Too late…” Then he collapses, dead weight sliding down the wall. The room goes still. Frozen. Rocco yanks his knife free, muttering a vicious curse. Dante’s jaw tightens like steel. And beside me—Elena lets out a tiny, broken sound. A soft, barely audible whimper. Enough. She has seen enough.
I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her back from the scene, shielding her from the fallen body as the men move in to confirm the shooter’s death.
“Alessandro…” she whispers, voice shaking.
“I know. I know, Dove.” My jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching it. I turn to Dante. “I’m taking her home.”
He gives a short nod. “Go. I’ll handle this.”
I don’t wait for anything else. I grip Elena’s hand, her fingers cold and trembling in mine, and lead her out of that room, out of the warehouse, out of the blood.
The drive home is quiet. Too quiet. Elena hasn’t said a single word since we left the warehouse. She just stares out the window, the passing streetlights reflecting in her eyes like faint flashes of fire. I glance over at her from the other seat. Her shoulders are rigid, her hands clasped tight in her lap, knuckles pale against the dim light of the SUV’s cabin. Every instinct in me screams to pull her into my arms, to tell her she’s safe, that I’ve got her, that she’ll never have to see something like that again. But I don’t. Because right now, she’s somewhere I can’t reach. And it’s killing me.
When we finally pull into the driveway, she still hasn’t looked at me. Still hasn’t blinked, it seems, since the moment that man died at Rocco’s hand.
I step out, circle the SUV, and open her door. “Elena.” Nothing.
She moves like she’s sleepwalking when I take her hand and help her out. Her skin is ice cold, her fingers trembling once before curling around mine. That tiny response—that she’s still here, still feeling something—is the only thing that keeps me from losing my mind. I lead her inside, up the stairs, down the quiet hall. Our footsteps echo. No words. Not until we stop in front of her bedroom door.
