Chapter 2: Hell's Kiss in the Safehouse
Elena's pulse raced faster in Dante's penthouse than in the dockyard shootout. The Volkov safehouse was a fortress of glass and steel, Chicago's neon skyline bleeding through floor-to-ceiling windows like a fever dream. Her white dress, torn and streaked with blood, clung to her thighs, a reminder of the chaos she'd barely survived.
Her father's journal was a heavy secret against her ribs, its coded pages screaming that Dante Volkov—the man whose touch set her virgin skin on fire—might be her father's killer.
She stood in the center of the penthouse, heart hammering, as Dante's dark eyes pinned her like a butterfly to a board.
"Sit," he ordered, his voice a low growl that vibrated through her. He leaned against a sleek bar, pouring amber liquid into a glass, his black suit unbuttoned just enough to reveal a glimpse of inked muscle. The Reaper was all power, all danger, and the air between them crackled with something Elena didn't want to name. Her body betrayed her, heat coiling low despite the fear twisting her gut.
"I'm not your dog," she snapped, crossing her arms to hide the tremble in her hands. The journal's weight burned, its note—"The Reaper's blade took my life"—echoing in her mind. She couldn't trust him, but she was his hostage, trapped in his world, and the way his gaze raked over her made escape feel like a distant dream.
Dante's lips curved, a smirk that was half-predator, half-seduction. "You're whatever I say you are, angel." He crossed the room in three strides, his boots silent on the polished floor, and stopped close enough for her to smell leather and smoke. His crew—six men, including the scarred, brooding Luka—watched from the edges, their guns a silent threat. Luka's eyes lingered on her too long, his jaw tight, and Elena's skin prickled. Something was off about him, but she couldn't place it.
"Get her cleaned up," Dante said to Luka, not breaking eye contact with her. "She's no good to me looking like a war zone."
Luka nodded, but his gaze flicked to Elena, intense and unreadable. "This way," he said, voice rough, gesturing to a hallway. She followed, her heels clicking, aware of Dante's stare burning into her back. The penthouse was a maze of steel doors and monitors flashing security feeds, a fortress built for war. Luka led her to a bathroom, all black marble and dim lights, and handed her a towel and a stack of clothes—a man's shirt and sweatpants, too big but clean.
"Don't try anything stupid," Luka said, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed. His scars caught the light, a map of violence, but his eyes held something softer, almost conflicted. "Dante doesn't play games."
"Neither do I," Elena shot back, clutching the clothes. She didn't trust Luka any more than Dante, not with the journal's secrets weighing her down. He lingered a moment, then left, the door clicking shut.
Alone, Elena stripped off her ruined dress, her skin goosebumping in the cool air. The mirror showed a girl she barely recognized—pale, blood-streaked, but with fire in her eyes. She hid the journal under the sink, behind a pipe, and stepped into the shower. Hot water stung her cuts, washing away the dockyard's grime but not the memory of Dante's touch—his fingers on her wrist, his breath against her ear.
Her virgin body ached with a need she hated, a heat she didn't understand. She pressed her thighs together, cursing herself. He was her captor, maybe her father's killer, and yet her skin burned for him.
She dressed in the oversized shirt, the fabric smelling faintly of Dante—leather and danger. Her heart pounded as she retrieved the journal, tucking it into the sweatpants' waistband. She had to decode it, find the truth, but every second in this penthouse felt like a trap.
Back in the main room, Dante was alone, his crew gone except for Luka, who stood by the door, eyes sharp. The city's neon glow cast shadows over Dante's face, making him look like a devil in a suit. He gestured to a leather couch. "Sit, angel. We need to talk."
Elena stayed standing, defiance her only armor. "Stop calling me that. I'm not your angel."
His smirk returned, darker this time. "You're whatever I want until I say otherwise." He stepped closer, his body a wall of heat and muscle, and her breath caught. He reached out, slow, deliberate, and tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered, tracing her jaw, then her throat, sending sparks through her untouched skin. "You're trouble," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "And I like trouble."
Her pulse raced, her body betraying her with a flush that spread from her chest to her thighs. She should hate him, fear him, but his touch was a live wire, and her inexperience made it worse—every sensation was new, overwhelming. His hand slid to her neck, thumb brushing her pulse, and she froze, caught between pushing him away and pulling him closer.
"Tell me about the journal," he said, his voice soft but edged with steel. His fingers tightened slightly, not painful but possessive, and her breath hitched. "What's in it, Elena?"
"Nothing you need to know," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. His eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer, his body brushing hers, the contact explicit, electric. Her thighs clenched, heat pooling low, and she hated how her virgin body responded, craving what she didn't understand.
"You're a bad liar," he said, his lips so close she could feel their heat. He leaned in, his mouth grazing her ear, and whispered, "I'll find out, angel. One way or another." His hand slid down her arm, fingers brushing the curve of her hip, and her knees nearly buckled. The 18+ tension was raw, her inexperience a fire he stoked with every touch, every word. She shoved against his chest, but it was like pushing a mountain, and his smirk only grew.
Before she could snap back, a sharp crack split the air—a bullet shattering the penthouse window. Glass rained down, and Dante yanked Elena to the floor, his body covering hers, hard and protective. Her heart pounded against his chest, their breaths mingling as gunfire erupted outside. Luka dove for cover, drawing his gun, his eyes scanning the monitors. "Cartel snipers!" he shouted, his voice tight.
Dante rolled off her, pulling a pistol from his waistband. "Stay down," he snarled, his eyes blazing with fury. He fired through the broken window, the sound deafening, and Elena scrambled behind the bar, her hands shaking. The journal slipped from her waistband, and she grabbed it, clutching it like a lifeline. She couldn't lose it—not now, not when it held the truth about her father.
Luka and Dante's crew returned fire, the penthouse a war zone of muzzle flashes and shattered glass. Elena peeked over the bar, her eyes catching a monitor feed—a dozen cartel hitmen storming the building's lobby. This wasn't random; it was a hit, and she was the target. Her mind raced to the journal, to the secrets she'd barely begun to unravel.
In the chaos, she flipped it open, her fingers trembling as she scanned a page. A coded line stood out, one she'd missed before: "Ledger hidden. Cartel owns Marco. Proof in vault." Her breath stopped. Her father had known Marco was dirty, tied to the cartel, and the ledger—whatever it was—could expose him. She snapped the journal shut, her heart racing. Marco had betrayed her family, and now he was betraying her to the cartel.
Dante grabbed her arm, pulling her toward a steel door. "Move, now!" His voice was a command, but his grip was careful, almost protective. They ran through a back hallway, Luka covering their rear as bullets tore through the walls. The safehouse was compromised, and Elena realized she wasn't just Dante's hostage—she was a pawn in a bigger game.
They reached a hidden elevator, the doors slamming shut as gunfire echoed. Dante pressed her against the wall, his body a shield, his breath hot on her neck. The 18+ heat flared again, explicit and undeniable, his hand gripping her waist as the elevator hummed downward. "You're more trouble than you're worth," he growled, but his eyes said otherwise, burning with a hunger that made her shiver.
"I didn't ask for this," she whispered, her voice trembling but defiant. His fingers tightened, his lips inches from hers, and for a moment, she thought he'd kiss her, claim her right there. Her virgin body screamed yes, even as her mind screamed no.
The elevator dinged, opening to a garage filled with sleek cars. Dante shoved her toward a black SUV, but Luka's voice cut through: "Reaper, we've got a problem." He held up a phone, Marco's voice crackling through.
"Volkov, you broke the deal," Marco said, his tone slick with venom. "The cartel wants the girl, and I'm done playing nice. Hand her over, or Chicago burns."
Dante's jaw clenched, his gun still in hand. He looked at Elena, his eyes dark with suspicion and something deeper—possession, maybe, or something she couldn't name. "What the hell's in that journal?" he demanded, his voice a low growl.
Elena's heart pounded, the journal's secrets a noose around her neck. Marco's betrayal, the cartel, her father's death—it was all connected, and Dante was at the center. Was he her enemy or her only way out?
The SUV's engine roared, but before they could move, Luka's phone buzzed again. His face paled as he listened, then looked at Dante. "It's the O'Sullivans. They've got your sister's killer. And they're saying it's tied to her." He nodded at Elena.
Her blood ran cold. The journal, the tattoo, her father's death—now Dante's sister. She was trapped in a web of blood and lies, and the man holding her captive might be the only one who could keep her alive—or the one who'd destroy her.