Chapter 2: The Bodyguard Interrupts
The world under the duvet was a muffled, terrifying cocoon. Ellie could hear the sharp, percussive bursts of gunfire—closer now, somewhere inside the suite itself—and the heavier, measured responses from Dante’s weapon. Each shot was a physical jolt through the floorboards. She squeezed her eyes shut, the silk of the nightgown clinging to her skin with a cold sweat.
A sudden, heavy thud against the bedroom door. It burst open, slamming into the wall.
“Clear!” a rough voice barked. “Two down in the living area. Perimeter’s compromised, boss.”
“Window,” Dante’s voice was calm, lethal. A final shot rang out from his direction, followed by the tinkle of falling glass. “Sniper’s handled. For now.”
The duvet was ripped away. Ellie blinked up at a new face, hovering over her. The man was built like a bulldozer, with a neck that seemed fused to his shoulders and a face that had clearly met violence more than once. A fresh smear of blood, dark and wet, streaked his white dress shirt. His eyes, flat and assessing, locked onto hers for a half-second before flicking to the handcuff.
“You brought her here?” the man, Marco, said, his tone implying a profound mistake.
“She was already here,” Dante replied. He was a silhouette against the shattered window, the city lights painting his outline in gold. He ejected a magazine from his pistol, checked it, slapped it back in with a practiced, chilling efficiency. “They knew the suite. They knew I’d be alone.”
“Not alone anymore,” Marco grunted, pulling a knife from his belt. He moved toward the headboard.
Ellie flinched, yanking her wrist back instinctively. The metal cuff bit again.
“Don’t,” Dante said, stopping him. He crossed the room, his steps silent on the plush carpet. The scent of gunpowder and his cologne enveloped her, a strange, violent perfume. He looked down at her, his dark eyes impossible to read. “Can you follow an order without arguing?”
Her heart was a frantic bird in her throat. She gave one sharp nod.
“Good.”
In one swift motion, he didn’t unlock the cuff. Instead, he grasped the wrought-iron bar it was attached to. With a brutal, wrenching twist of his body, he tore the entire section of the headboard free from its moorings with a sound of protesting wood and metal. He held it like a bizarre, heavy bouquet, the bar extending from his fist, her wrist still chained to it.
Before she could process this display of raw strength, his other hand wrapped around her arm. He dragged her, not ungently but with undeniable force, off the high bed. She stumbled, her bare feet hitting the floor, the heavy iron bar awkward in her grasp. He pulled her down behind the substantial bulk of a leather-covered dressing lounge, away from the line of sight of the broken window.
He went down with her, his body covering hers, one arm braced on the floor beside her head, the other still holding the severed headboard bar. The weight of him was immense, pressing her into the carpet. It was protection, yes—his body a shield between her and the door. But the way his arm curled around, pinning the bar and her arm to the floor, felt like something more absolute. A claim.
She could feel the hard lines of him, the steady, controlled rhythm of his breathing against her back. Her own came in short, sharp gasps. The scent of him was everywhere.
“Breathe slower,” his voice was a quiet vibration against her ear. “They’ll hear you hyperventilating from the hall.”
She tried. She focused on the texture of the carpet against her cheek, the cool metal in her hand, the impossible heat of the man draped over her. A strange calm, fragile and thin, settled over the panic. She was watching a predator work. And for now, she was in his den.
Marco was a shadow by the door, his own weapon trained on the corridor. “Van downstairs. Three men, maybe four. They’ll come up. The safe room.”
“Too far. They’ll have the stairs covered,” Dante murmured, his gaze fixed on the doorway. His focus was absolute, a hunter calculating angles and odds. Ellie realized he was speaking as if she wasn’t there, or as if her hearing it didn’t matter.
“So we hold here?” Marco asked, skepticism edging his voice. His eyes cut to Ellie, a clear question: with her?
“We don’t hold.” Dante’s head tilted slightly, listening. “They’re in the east hallway. You take the service passage to the right, flank. I’ll draw them in here.”
“You’re using the room as a choke point. With her in it.”
“She stays with me.” The statement was final. He shifted his weight, his hand leaving the floor to briefly touch her side, a quick check. “You’re hit?” His fingers came away clean. “Good. When I move, you move. You stay behind me. You drop that bar, I leave you where you fall. Understood?”
It wasn’t a question. It was a contract amendment, written in blood and gun smoke.
“Understood,” Ellie whispered, the word tasting of cotton and fear.
A burst of automatic fire chewed up the doorframe, splinters raining down. Marco melted into a panel in the wall she hadn’t even seen, a hidden door clicking shut behind him.
Dante’s body tightened over hers. “Now.”
He rose, pulling her up with him as if she weighed nothing. He shoved the heavy headboard bar back into her free hand. “Carry it. Don’t let it clang.”
He moved to the side of the ruined doorway, back flush against the wall, and gestured for her to take the other side. She pressed herself against the wallpaper, the cold iron bar gripped in both hands, a ridiculous and deadly anchor. Her wedding ring gleamed, a tiny defiance in the gloom.
He looked at her then, really looked, across the space of the bullet-riddled doorway. His eyes traveled from her wild hair, down the thin silk gown, to the makeshift iron weapon in her hands. Something flickered in his expression—not admiration, but a sharp, appraising recognition.
“You’re not screaming,” he noted, his voice barely audible.
“I’m deciding whether to hit you with this,” she breathed back, her own voice steadier than she felt.
The faintest ghost of a smile touched his mouth. It was gone in an instant. “Later.”
Boots thudded in the hallway, cautious, spreading out. Dante raised a single finger to his lips, his dark eyes holding hers. In that suspended second, charged with imminent violence, Ellie felt a bizarre, electric thrill cut through the terror. She was part of this dark dance, for better or worse.
He pivoted, leaning out of the doorway just enough to fire two precise shots down the hall. A shout of pain answered. He ducked back as return fire exploded, plaster dust clouding the air.
“Marco,” Dante said, to no one she could see.
From further down the hall, a new volley of gunfire erupted. Silenced, efficient. The shouts turned to chaos.
Dante grabbed her wrist again, the one without the cuff, his fingers iron-strong. “Move.”
He pulled her out into the carnage.