And even through the fear and exhaustion and trauma, even through everything that just happened, I feel something else. Something I definitely shouldn’t be feeling right now.
Lust.
A pull. Like gravity. Drawing me toward him even though every instinct is screaming at me to run.
What the hell is wrong with me?
He’s probably the killer, or another human trafficker looking for a young girl to kidnap. He’s definitely dangerous. And I’m sitting here feeling…attracted?
I blame it on shock. Adrenaline making you feel things that aren’t real.
But it feels real. The way my heart is racing. The way heat is pooling low in my belly. The way I can’t stop staring at him even though I should be running. But I don’t move.
I just sit there against the wall, hidden in the shadows, staring back at the masked stranger who might be dangerous or might be nobody at all.
And I wonder if surviving tonight was actually a mistake.
4
DANTE
Fuck. What did I just do?
I stand in Antonio’s office with a dead man at my feet and the sound of her footsteps fading down the hallway, and the reality of my mistake crashes over me like ice water.
I just let a fucking witness walk away. Disappear into the night with my face burned into her memory and the knowledge of what I’ve done.
What the fuck was that?
This goes against every rule I’ve ever followed. Every lesson my father beat into me. Every instinct I’ve honed over a decade of surviving in this world.
You don’t let witnesses live. Ever. No exceptions, no mercy.
And I just broke that rule for a girl whose name I don’t even know.
My father’s voice echoes in my head, cold and cutting. “Weakness gets you killed. Hesitation gets you buried. Youleave a witness alive and you might as well put the gun to your own head.”
He’s right. He’s always right about this shit.
If he finds out I let someone walk away, someone who saw my face, who can identify me, who witnessed a hit, he’ll put a bullet in me himself. Family or not, there are lines you don’t cross in this business.
And I just crossed the biggest one.
Move. Fix this. Now.
My feet finally cooperate and I’m moving through the mansion, following the path she took. Down the hallway lined with bodies. Past the other rooms where Antonio kept god knows how many girls locked up.
The front door is still open, swinging slightly in the night breeze. She can’t have gotten far. Barefoot, wearing torn scrubs, covered in blood—she’ll be easy to spot.
Easy to finish.
I hit the street and scan both directions. It’s that dead hour between late night and early morning when the city holds its breath. A few cars pass but no pedestrians. No sign of her.
Think. Where would she go?
Not the police. Not immediately. She’s too scared and traumatized. She’ll run first, process later.
Somewhere public. Somewhere with people. Somewhere she thinks she’ll be safe.
