Chapter 17: The Long Way Home

Naturally, the night wrapped up exactly how it always did for Ares Valtieri half-empty champagne glasses glittering beneath crystal lights, applause that sounded canned, like laugh tracks from a sitcom, and grins stretched too wide to be real. Honestly, it felt like a rerun on loop.

Isla Quinn followed behind, heels knocking on marble, her feet ached like hell. The pounding in her head made her blink, and the ballroom air was thick enough to choke on. Still, she played her part: graceful, composed, that “elegant lady” act she’d practiced to perfection. Every gesture, every smile, rehearsed to the last detail because that’s what they were.

She was tired, clear down to her core.

The doors hurled them into the biting New York chill. Cameras flashed immediately, hungry as sharks to blood. Ares threw the photographers his usual crooked grin, hand pressing firm at Isla’s lower back. Not affectionate, just a clear “mine, don’t touch.”

“Eyes forward,” he muttered. “Say nothing.”

She obeyed.

Security rushed them to the waiting black sedan. The city thrummed on, indifferent to whatever mess followed them.

Inside, silence pressed in like a lid.

The door thudded closed, and Isla sagged back, eyelids sinking shut a moment too long. I just needed to breathe.

“You did well tonight,” Ares said.

Not praise. Not really. Just a flat observation.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

The car slipped into traffic, streetlights streaking gold and white across the glass. Time got strange, stretching and bending until minutes felt like hours.

Isla shifted, glancing out at the city. “Is this a new route?”

“Yeah,” he said.

I didn't like that answer. “Why?”

“Construction. And fewer cameras.”

She nodded, but her stomach twisted. Something about it was wrong.

The city lights faded, neon giving way to long black stretches and looming warehouses. The hum of traffic vanished behind them.

She checked the side mirror.

Her heart stuttered. “Ares... where’s our other car?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Glanced at his phone, face darkening, locked it again. “They fell back.”

“People don’t just fall back.”

“No,” he agreed, voice too calm. “They don’t.”

The driver slowed.

Isla’s fists twisted in her dress. “Why are we stopping?”

She barely got the words out before headlights, blinding bright, flared in front a car slid sideways, blocking their path.

The sedan jerked to a halt.

Her pulse leapt.

A second car boxed them in from behind.

Perfect. Cornered.

Ares was already moving. “Stay here,” sharp, clipped, reaching for the door.

“Ares—”

The door swung open, cold air punching in.

He was gone.

Isla froze, heart hammering, as shadows shifted outside. Four men, all in black, faces shadowed. No way this was random.

One called out, “Evening, Valtieri.”

Ares didn’t respond.

The first guy lunged.

Ares moved like he was born for this. Sidestepped, twisted the man’s arm, drove him into the hood. One blow down for the count.

Next one tried from the side. Ares ducked, landed an elbow to the gut, swept his legs out. The guy crumpled, not moving.

Isla’s hands trembled in her lap. She’d never seen Ares like this so contained it was terrifying.

A third man came in.

Ares blocked, twisted his arm, shoved him back. Quick jab to the neck over.

Silence, except for ragged breaths.

Then the back door yanked open.

Someone seized her arm, hauling her partway out. She screamed, fought to break free.

Ares was already there, tearing the man off her, slamming him down. The look on Ares’ face was pure rage, nothing hidden.

He pinned the guy, voice cold and lethal: “Touch her again and you won’t wake up.”

One punch. Done.

He shot a look at Isla, quick and anxious. “You okay? Did they hurt you?”

She shook her head, tears blurring her vision. “No, I'm fine. Really.”

Before she could take a breath, another guy charged at Ares.

Ares didn’t flinch. He barreled forward, grabbed the guy, and slammed his head into the car. Not gentle, but not lethal. Just… enough.

That one folded like wet cardboard.

Ares straightened up, breath ragged, eyes wild, scanning the dark. Still wound tight, every muscle ready.

Then, out of nowhere, a slow clap echoed down the street. Like some movie villain had strolled in by mistake.

A man stepped into the light, all perfect suit and slicked-back hair. Not a wrinkle to be seen. Marcus Hale.

Ares’ jaw clenched. “You messed up, Hale.”

Marcus just smiled, calm as ever. “No. This is exactly what I wanted.”

His gaze landed on Isla. “Didn’t even hesitate, did you?”

Ares shifted to shield her, a human barricade. “Leave.”

Marcus shrugged, like he had all the time in the world. “Another night, then.” He lifted his hand.

Bang. That fast.

Ares jolted.

Isla’s mind stalled; she didn’t process it until she saw him stagger.

“Ares?” Her voice shook.

He turned, eyes cloudy, confused for a heartbeat.

Then he dropped.

She caught him, barely knees scraping pavement, arms wrapping him, his blood already soaking through her sleeves.

“No, no, please stay with me—”

His breathing was shallow and shaky.

Sirens in the distance, wailing closer.

He looked at her, eyes fluttering. “Isla…”

She clung to him, heart pounding so hard it ached.

And for the first time since she’d met him, Ares Valtieri was bleeding out in her arms.