Chapter 7 - THE DRAGON'S BREATH
“Get away from the door,” Dante whispered, his voice dangerously calm. He forced himself to his feet, leaning heavily against the peeling wallpaper, both hands gripping his weapon to steady the shaking from blood loss.
I backed away, moving instinctively toward the sofa where Leo was sleeping. My heart was hammering so hard I thought it would crack my ribs. Paul, the pathetic, sweating manager who had berated me for dropping plates, was a hitman for my biological father.
“Mara, don't make this difficult,” Paul called out through the door, jiggling the locked handle. “The boy belongs to the syndicate. Lorenzo is his great-uncle. He just wants his family back.”
“He murdered Sofia!” I screamed back, unable to stop myself. “He murdered his own niece!”
Silence fell on the other side of the door.
Then, a low, cruel chuckle. “Ah. So Dante told you the family secrets. That’s a shame. Lorenzo really was hoping to keep you alive, Mara. Your bloodline is the key to the Valenti trust. But I suppose a dead heiress is just as easy to forge signatures for.”
The heavy thud of a boot kicking the door frame shook the apartment. The old wood groaned.
“They’re going to breach,” Dante said softly. He looked at me, his dark eyes intense. “When the door opens, I will drop the first two. You take the fire escape. Go down to the alley. Don't stop running.”
“I’m not leaving you to die!” I hissed, grabbing Leo, who was starting to stir, whining softly at the noise.
“You will do as I say!” Dante commanded, his voice a fierce, alpha bark that brokered no argument. “He is my son, Mara. I am his father. It is my job to die for him. It is your job to live for him.”
The door splintered as a second, violent kick landed. The deadbolt bent inward.
I looked wildly around the small room. My mother’s sewing box sat on the floor near the radiator. Inside were heavy, forged steel fabric shears. I grabbed them, clutching the cold metal tight in my free hand.
“One more kick, boss,” a muffled voice said from the hallway.
“Do it,” Paul ordered.
CRASH.
The door exploded inward, wood splinters flying across the room.
Two men in black suits rushed in, guns raised.
Dante didn't hesitate. Bang. Bang. Two suppressed shots echoed in the tight space. Both men dropped instantly, clutching their chests.
But the recoil sent Dante stumbling backward. His wound tore open, fresh blood blooming through the white bandages. He fell to one knee, gasping in agony, his gun slipping from his grip.
Paul stepped over the bodies of his men, a silenced pistol raised, aimed directly at Dante’s head.
“The great Dante Russo,” Paul sneered, adjusting his glasses. “Brought down by a waitress and a bleeding heart. Lorenzo is going to pay me double for this.”
Paul’s finger tightened on the trigger.
I didn't think. I remembered the second half of my mother’s rule. The part I had forgotten until this exact moment, buried beneath years of fear.
If you ever see men with dragons on their skin, you walk the other way. But if they corner you, Mara... you burn them down.
As Paul focused entirely on Dante, I lunged from the shadows beside the sofa.
I drove the heavy steel sewing shears deep into Paul’s shoulder, right below his collarbone.
Paul screamed, a high, reedy sound of absolute shock. He dropped his gun, stumbling backward, clawing at the shears buried in his flesh.
Dante didn't miss a beat. He lunged forward, sweeping Paul’s legs out from under him. Paul crashed to the floor, his head hitting the hardwood with a sickening crack. He went entirely still.
I stood over him, my chest heaving, my hands shaking uncontrollably. I had just stabbed a man.
Dante grabbed his gun, using the wall to pull himself up. He looked at me, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and profound awe.
“You didn't run,” Dante breathed.
“I told you,” I said, my voice shaking as I backed away from Paul's unconscious body. “I don't walk away.”
Leo started crying from the sofa, the violence finally waking him fully. I rushed over, scooping him up, burying my face in his soft hair to ground myself.
Dante limped over to Paul and kicked the hitman’s gun away. He reached into Paul’s jacket and pulled out a sleek, black smartphone.
“Lorenzo will have a backup team waiting outside,” Dante said, his breathing shallow. He unlocked the phone using Paul’s limp fingerprint. He quickly scrolled through the messages.
Dante’s face went pale.
“What is it?” I asked, terror spiking again.
“Lorenzo isn't waiting at his estate,” Dante said, looking up at me. “He has my sister. Carmela. He’s holding her hostage at the docks. He texted Paul... he said if Paul didn't bring the baby to Pier 41 in an hour, he’ll execute her.”
“Carmela?” I frowned. “The woman who hates you? The one who told Lorenzo about the baby sleeping?”
“She’s a bitter, ambitious woman,” Dante said, his voice hardening. “But she is family. Lorenzo knows I will not let a Russo die, even one who betrayed me.”
“It’s a trap, Dante. He wants you to bring Leo so he can wipe out your entire bloodline in one place.”
“I know it is,” Dante said, tossing Paul’s phone onto the sofa. He looked at me, a dangerous, brilliant light returning to his eyes despite his injury. “But Lorenzo thinks Paul succeeded. He thinks Paul is bringing a terrified waitress and a baby to the docks. He isn't expecting a Don.”
Dante walked over to the closet and pulled out my mother’s heavy wool winter coat. He handed it to me.
“Put this on,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because you are going to walk into Pier 41 holding my son,” Dante said, his eyes intensely focused on mine. “And you are going to hand him over to Lorenzo.”
I stared at him, horrified. “Are you insane?! I will never give him this baby!”
Dante stepped close, his massive hands gripping my shoulders. “Mara, look at me. Look into my eyes.”
I looked. There was no fear, no hesitation. Just absolute, unbreakable trust.
“I swear on my life, on Sofia’s soul, that Lorenzo will not lay a finger on this boy,” Dante whispered fiercely. “But I need him to think he has won. For exactly sixty seconds.”
He reached down and gently unbuttoned the top of Leo’s tiny vest. He pulled a small, flashing GPS tracker from his own pocket—the one he had intended to use on Paul’s phone—and slid it into the lining of the baby’s clothes.
“Do you trust me, Mara?” Dante asked, his voice rough with emotion.
May you like
I looked at the black dragon on his hand, resting gently against my collarbone. I looked at the baby in my arms, who was looking up at Dante with perfect, innocent trust.
“I trust you,” I said.
