Chapter 6 – The Spider and the Fly

Dante’s POV

The war room stinks of gun oil, fresh sweat, and the kind of ambition that gets men buried under concrete. Five lieutenants sit around the long black table, old blood loyalty mixing with new greed like bad whiskey and gasoline.

I light a cigarette, drag deep, let the smoke curl out slow while they wait for me to speak first. They always wait. Smart ones do.

Luka breaks the silence because he's young, stupid, and thinks his balls are bigger than his brain. He leans forward, elbows on the table, voice trying for casual but landing somewhere between cocky and suicidal.

“She’s a risk, boss. Doctor or not, she saw everything. The alley, the bodies, your face. We should make it clean. Quick. One bullet, no mess.”

The room goes still. Not the polite kind of quiet. The kind where everyone holds their breath because they know what happens next.

I don’t look away from him. I take another drag, let the cherry glow bright between my fingers, then press the cigarette out against the table until it hisses and dies. Smoke drifts up between us like a ghost.

“You want to repeat that, Luka?” My voice stays low, almost bored.

He swallows, but the arrogance doesn’t quite leave his eyes yet. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. Loose ends get us all killed eventually.”

I feel the weight of the Glock in my shoulder holster like it’s begging. My pulse doesn’t even jump. It never does anymore.

Before he can open his mouth again I draw, aim, and fire.

One clean shot through the mouth. Teeth shatter, blood sprays in a wet arc across the marble. His body jerks once, hard, then slumps forward, chair scraping loud as it tips.

Nobody flinches. Nobody breathes wrong.

Blood pools under his cheek, dark and thick, creeping toward the center of the table like it’s looking for the drain.

I set the gun down gently, almost polite, barrel still smoking.

“Anyone else got suggestions?” I ask the room.

Four sets of eyes stay locked on the table. No one speaks. No one even blinks too fast.

I stand, roll my shoulders, feel the fresh bandage pull tight against the stitches Elena put in me earlier. The pain’s a dull throb, reminds me she’s upstairs right now, probably pacing, probably hating me already. Good. Hate keeps her sharp.

“Meeting’s over,” I say.

They rise without a word, chairs scraping back, boots moving quick and quiet toward the door. One of them pauses just long enough to drag Luka’s body out by the ankle. A wet smear follows him across the floor. Door shuts behind them.

I stay there a second longer, staring at the empty chair, the blood still spreading slow.

She’s worth more than every man in this room combined. They’ll learn that. Or they’ll join Luka.

I light another cigarette, exhale hard through my nose.

Time to check on my doctor.

I’m halfway down the east corridor when the scent hits me first. Jasmine, too sweet, mixed with red wine and that cloying perfume she thinks makes her smell expensive. It’s the smell of someone who’s never had to earn anything she wears.

Svetlana’s already in my suite, sprawled across the black sheets like she still has a right to be there. Silk robe open just enough to show she’s got nothing on underneath, legs crossed at the ankle, one hand trailing lazy circles over her thigh. She looks up when I step inside, lips curving into that slow, practiced smile she used on my father until the day he stopped breathing.

“My condolences, darling,” she purrs, voice all honey and broken glass. “Another boy lost to your charming temper. Luka always did talk too much.”

I don’t answer right away. I walk straight to the bar cart, pour three fingers of bourbon, let the burn of the first swallow steady the itch in my trigger finger.

She slides off the bed, robe slipping off one shoulder as she pads closer. “You used to be gentler with me, you know. Used to let me soothe you after nights like this.”

Her fingers brush my forearm, light, testing. I don’t move.

“Used to be a lot of things,” I say, voice flat. “None of them included letting my father’s widow crawl into my bed.”

She laughs, soft and low, pressing her tits against my chest anyway. “Don’t be cruel, Dante. I only want to help you sleep. You look so tense.”

I set the glass down hard enough the ice clinks. Then I grab her wrist, twist just enough to make her gasp, and shove her back a step.

“Try that again,” I tell her, slow and cold, “and I’ll put you in the ground next to Luka. Same hole. Save on digging.”

Her eyes flash, but the smile stays glued on. “Always so dramatic. Is this about the little nurse upstairs? The one who patched you up like some stray dog she found in the rain?”

My blood goes still. Dangerous still.

“She’s cute,” Svetlana goes on, tilting her head, voice dripping fake sweetness. “Soft hands, soft mouth, thinks her pretty eyes and her Hippocratic Oath buy her power here. I could teach her a few things about surviving men like you. Break her in properly so she doesn’t cry every time you—”

“Touch her,” I cut in, stepping into her space until she has to tip her head back to meet my eyes, “and I’ll forget you were ever my father’s wife. I’ll forget you have a name. I’ll carve it off your tongue and feed it to the dogs. You understand me?”

She swallows. The smile finally cracks, just a little.

“You’ve changed,” she whispers, almost like she’s disappointed.

“No.” I lean in close enough she can feel my breath on her lips. “I’ve finally become who I was always meant to be. And she’s the reason. So keep her name out of your filthy mouth, Svetlana. Last warning.”

For once she doesn’t push. She steps back, robe falling closed again, arms crossing tight over her chest like armor she doesn’t really believe in.

“You think she’s different,” she says quietly. “You think she won’t break like the rest.”

I smile, slow and mean. “She already broke me open, sweetheart. Difference is, I like the way it hurts.”

Svetlana stares at me a long second, something ugly flickering behind her eyes, then she turns and walks out without another word. Door clicks shut behind her.

I stand there breathing hard through my nose, fist clenched so tight my knuckles ache.

She’s upstairs right now. Pacing. Hungry. Mine.

And nobody, not Svetlana, not my own blood, not the whole fucking city, is taking her from me.

I finish the bourbon in one swallow, set the glass down, and head for the surveillance room.

The surveillance room is dark except for the blue glow washing over my face from the wall of monitors. Ten screens. Nine of them show empty halls, gates, the perimeter, my men moving like shadows with rifles slung low. The tenth one is all I care about.

Elena’s room. Camera tucked high in the corner so she can’t spot it unless she’s looking for it. She hasn’t looked yet.

She’s pacing barefoot across the rug, hair pulled up in a messy knot, still wearing that plain gray sleep shirt we left for her. The hem hits mid-thigh and rides up every time she turns sharp. Long legs, smooth skin, the kind of body that makes a man forget his own name. My cock twitches just watching her move, restless, angry, beautiful.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, leaning closer to the screen.

She stops at the window, fingers curling around the iron bars. She tugs once, hard, testing. Nothing gives. Of course it doesn’t. Then she presses her forehead to the glass for a second, shoulders dropping like the weight of it all just hit her at once.

I smile slow. “That’s it, baby girl. Feel it. You’re not getting out until I say so.”