Chapter 5 - Taken

Elena’s POV

I feel it before it happens.

That’s the part that stays with me later — not the fear, not the chaos, but the certainty. The quiet click inside my chest that says this is wrong.

The street outside the club is almost empty. Too empty for a Thursday night. The music still pulses faintly through the walls behind me, but out here the city feels muted, like someone turned the volume down without warning.

I shouldn’t be alone.

I know that.

I also know I didn’t wait.

I told myself it would be fine. That I’d walked this route a hundred times. That paranoia isn’t the same as instinct.

I’m halfway down the block when the van slows beside me.

Black. Unmarked. Windows tinted so dark they swallow the streetlight instead of reflecting it.

My hand curls instinctively, nails biting into my palm.

Don’t run yet.

The door slides open.

That’s when I run.

Someone grabs my arm before I make it three steps. The grip is strong, practiced. I twist, aiming low, but another hand clamps over my mouth, cutting off the sound before it can leave my throat.

“Easy,” a voice murmurs near my ear. “We just want to talk.”

I bite down hard.

The man swears and tightens his grip. I fight anyway — knees, elbows, weight thrown back — but there are too many of them, moving like they’ve done this before.

They drag me toward the van.

This is it, a part of my mind notes distantly. This is the mistake.

The door yawns open, dark and waiting.

A gunshot cracks the air.

Everything freezes.

Not the panicked kind of freeze — the sharp, instinctive one. The kind that means authority has arrived.

“Let her go.”

I know that voice.

It hits me like a physical force.

Matteo.

The man holding me hesitates. Just a fraction. It’s enough.

I wrench free and stumble back, lungs burning. Matteo steps into the light like the night rearranged itself around him.

He isn’t shouting.

He doesn’t need to.

Two of his men fan out behind him, silent, efficient. Weapons low but visible.

The rival who grabbed me lifts his hands slowly. “De Luca. This doesn’t concern you.”

Matteo’s gaze doesn’t leave him.

“You touched what’s under my protection,” he says calmly. “That makes it my concern.”

I feel his presence before I feel his hand.

He’s suddenly there, solid and close, one arm coming around me without hesitation, pulling me back against his chest. The contact is grounding in a way that steals my breath.

“You hurt?” he asks quietly, for me alone.

I shake my head. “No.”

His jaw tightens.

“Get in the van,” one of the rivals snaps at his men. “Now.”

No one moves.

Matteo doesn’t look at them. He looks down at me, checking my face, my hands, the line of my throat where the man’s arm had been.

“You didn’t wait,” he says.

“I thought—”

“I know what you thought,” he interrupts softly. “You’re not wrong. But you’re not safe.”

He lifts his gaze again.

“You have one chance to leave,” Matteo says to the rivals. “Without her.”

“And if we don’t?” one of them asks.

Matteo exhales slowly.

Then the night erupts.

It’s fast. Controlled. Brutal in its efficiency.

Matteo’s men move first. Shots fired into the pavement. Shouts. Someone goes down hard. The van peels away, tyres screaming as it disappears down the street.

Silence crashes in its wake.

My hands are shaking now. I can’t stop them.

Matteo turns me fully toward him, both hands firm on my shoulders.

“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” he asks.

I swallow. “I’m sure.”

His eyes search mine, dark and furious and relieved all at once.

“Never do that again,” he says quietly.

“I didn’t—”

He pulls me into him before I can finish.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not careful.

It’s desperate.

I feel his breath against my hair, his hand pressing into the middle of my back like he needs to feel me there, solid and real.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

Then I realise my face is pressed against his chest, my hands fisted in his jacket without me remembering when that happened.

“You were taken,” he says into my hair. “That changes things.”

⸻

Matteo’s POV

I’ve been too late before.

That’s the thought burning through my head as I step out of the car and see them dragging her toward the van.

Too late.

Not again.

I don’t think. I don’t hesitate. I fire into the ground because I don’t need blood — I need attention.

They freeze. She runs. They grab her anyway.

I don’t raise my voice.

I don’t need to.

When I reach her, when I feel her body hit mine as I pull her back, something inside my chest cracks open in a way I don’t allow.

She’s shaking.

That’s what nearly breaks me.

They crossed the line. I knew they would. I just underestimated how quickly.

I deal with them because that’s what I do. I end it because that’s my responsibility.

But my attention never leaves her.

When the street is quiet again, when the danger pulls back into shadow, I turn to her fully.

She looks furious. Shaken. Alive.

“You didn’t wait,” I say.

“I didn’t think—”

“I know,” I tell her. And I do. She doesn’t think like someone who expects to be taken. That’s what makes her dangerous to herself.

When I pull her into me, it isn’t strategy.

It’s instinct.

Her hands clutch my jacket. Her breath is uneven. I feel her heart racing through the thin fabric between us.

“You’re safe,” I say, low and firm. “I have you.”

She tilts her head up, eyes blazing. “You don’t get to say that like it doesn’t mean something.”

I meet her gaze.

“It means everything,” I reply.

The kiss happens before either of us decides it should.

It’s not careful.

It’s not restrained.

Her hands slide up my chest, fingers gripping hard like she’s anchoring herself. I cup her face without thinking, thumb brushing her cheek, feeling the heat of her skin.

The kiss is fierce. Claiming. Charged with everything we haven’t said.

She kisses me back like she’s choosing it.

Like she’s here.

Like she’s alive.

I deepen it without crossing the line, keeping her close, steadying the tremor in her body with my own control. When I pull back, it’s only far enough to rest my forehead against hers.

“That can’t happen again,” I say.

Her breath is warm against my mouth. “It already did.”

I close my eyes briefly, then open them.

“Then things change,” I say. “You don’t move without me knowing. You don’t walk alone. You don’t get taken again.”

“And if I refuse?” she asks quietly.

I meet her gaze, honest and unflinching.

“Then I’ll still come for you,” I say. “Every time.”

She studies me, something soft and dangerous in her expression.

“That’s not ownership,” she says.

“No,” I agree. “It’s a promise.”

She kisses me again, slower this time, deliberate.

When she pulls back, her voice is steady.

“Take me home.”

I wrap my arm around her without hesitation.

And I know, with absolute certainty, that the war just became personal.