DANTE'S POV
Two days had passed since Emilio stormed off like peace was a plague. Dante hadn't expected to hear from him again so soon, let alone with an invitation that reeked of unease. It arrived quietly—hand-delivered by one of Emilio's men, no note, no words, just a folded piece of paper with a time and place.
An old church, just outside the city. Quiet. Neutral ground.
Dante stared at the message for a long moment. It could be a trap. Hell, if it were him, it probably would be. But something about it tugged at him—not quite curiosity, not quite suspicion. Something heavier. Something deeper.
So he went.
The chapel stood like a forgotten relic, hunched beneath a grey sky. Its once-grand doors were weathered and scarred, one hanging slightly off its hinge. Ivy clawed up the stone walls like the past refusing to be buried. Dust hung thick in the air, stirred only by the occasional breeze that whispered through the cracked stained glass.
He waited.
And then Emilio appeared—stepping out from the shadows like he belonged to the place. That damned coat fluttering behind him, boots clicking on the stone floor, expression unreadable as always.
Dante gave a crooked smile. "You chose a hell of a place for peace."
But before Emilio could respond, the doors behind them slammed shut. The air shifted.
Footsteps.
Sharp, purposeful.
Figures emerged from the side—four, five, maybe more—black-clad, faces half-covered, moving like wolves. Dante reached for the weapon at his side, but he was a breath too slow. A blunt strike cracked against the back of his head and everything spun. He staggered, then dropped to one knee as pain bloomed white behind his eyes.
Someone shoved him forward. Metal cuffs clamped around his wrists. Emilio struggled too—Dante could hear the scuffle, the curses—but the numbers were too much.
They were dragged out the back door, thrown like garbage into the backseat of a black SUV. The doors slammed, and tires screamed against gravel as the car sped off into nowhere.
Dante groaned, eyes narrowing at Emilio who sat across from him, cuffed to the opposite side of the vehicle. His jaw tightened. "This your idea of peace?"
Emilio's glare burned. "Shut up."
They didn't speak again—not yet.
The car sped down a lonely road, empty fields stretching like an ocean of nothing on either side. Dante shifted against his restraints—steel bar, bolted to the frame of the car, biting into his skin with every bump.
He tugged, hard. No give.
"This is why I told you not to pull that lone wolf act," he snapped.
Emilio rolled his eyes. "Oh, now it's my fault?"
"You told me not to bring my men. You said 'No show of power.' Guess what? We should've brought a damn army."
"Right. And you just blindly listened?" Emilio's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Didn't expect that from you, King."
Dante shot him a glare. "Keep running your mouth. That's going to get us out of here."
They went back and forth like that—sharp, bitter words bouncing off the steel walls. Two lions clawing inside a cage. Until the front passenger finally turned halfway, his face shadowed by a cap.
"Could you two shut up for a second?" His voice wasn't aggressive. It was cautious. Careful. Too careful.
Dante caught that.
He doesn't want to piss me off.
That meant they knew who he was. Which meant someone higher up had ordered this.
The car suddenly pulled to the side, kicking up dust in a long cloud. The driver killed the engine.
"We wait here," one of them said. "Others are joining. No one moves alone."
Dante's heart picked up. More vehicles. More men.
But also... more distractions.
He looked at Emilio. Emilio looked back.
That familiar trace of mutual madness passed between them. The same one that had started wars in the past, and ended alliances.
No words.
Just action.
Dante adjusted his body, drew back, and then slammed his boot against the window.
Once. A crack.
Twice. The crack spidered.
The third kick shattered it completely. Glass rained like jagged snow.
The front passenger turned, half-shouting, "Hey!"
But Dante was already hauling himself through the window, ignoring the scrape of metal and glass against his skin.
"Now, Emilio!" he yelled.
Emilio didn't even hesitate. He bolted after him—graceful despite the cuffs—rolling through the opening just as shouts erupted behind them.
"Get them!"
Gunfire cracked through the air, whistling past their heads. But they were already sprinting—full speed—toward the treeline.
Dante's lungs burned as he tore through thick underbrush, ducking low beneath twisted branches and thorns slashed his arms, but he didn't stop. Couldn't.
Branches scratched his clothes, and roots tried to trip him, but adrenaline pushed him forward like fire in his blood. Behind him, Emilio ran just as fast, the same fear in his eyes. Even with all the tension between them, they were in this together now.
More gunshots. Closer this time.
Dante turned left and slid down a steep hill. His shoulder hit a rock, and pain shot through him, but he didn't stop. They ran through a shallow creek, water soaking their boots, legs tired and burning.
They reached a thick group of trees and dropped behind the wide trunk of an old oak. Both of them were out of breath, chests rising and falling fast, hearts pounding like war drums.
Dante's chest heaved as he looked over at Emilio—equally breathless, face stained with dirt and blood.
"You good?" Dante managed. He glanced behind quickly—Emilio was there, just a few feet behind him, running hard, his breath sharp and loud. His hair was a mess, his coat flapping wildly, and his face—
His face made Dante slow just a little.
Emilio looked terrified.
Not angry. Not full of fire like usual. No sarcasm or pride in his eyes. Just fear. Real fear. Wide eyes. Pale face. His lips pressed tight like he was trying not to scream.
Emilio gave him a dry look. "We're cuffed, shot at, and who knows where we are. Just perfect."
Dante let out a breathy chuckle. "Still got that smart mouth. Good. Means you're alive."
In the distance, they could hear the men shouting—voices echoing through the trees like hounds on a scent.
But for now... they were hidden.
For now.
Dante shifted, trying to break the cuffs on the tree bark. Emilio joined him, turning so their wrists met.
Metal scraped. Blood smeared. But they didn't stop.
Not until one of them broke free.
Not until they could run again.
Not until they could turn this ambush into payback.
Because whoever set this up?
They made one mistake.
They didn't kill them first.