Chapter 3: Knives in Her Damn Veil
Elena wasn't ready for Dante's world, but his world didn't give a damn. The Volkov safehouse garage was a concrete jungle of sleek cars and gunmetal, the black SUV's engine growling like a caged beast.
Dante's grip on her arm was iron, his dark eyes burning with suspicion as he shoved her toward the vehicle. Her oversized shirt—his shirt—clung to her damp skin, the journal tucked against her waistband a secret heavier than the gun in his hand. Marco's voice still echoed from the phone: "The cartel wants the girl." Worse, the O'Sullivans claimed she was tied to Dante's sister's killer. Elena's heart pounded—she was a hostage in a war she didn't start, and the man holding her might be her only shield or her worst enemy.
"Get in," Dante snarled, yanking the SUV door open. His suit was rumpled, blood flecking his collar from the penthouse ambush, but his presence was still a force, all coiled violence and heat. The memory of his touch—his fingers on her hip, his breath against her ear—lingered, making her virgin body ache despite the danger. She hated it, hated him, but her skin didn't care about the journal's warning: "The Reaper's blade took my life."
Luka stood by the SUV, his scarred face tight, phone still in hand. "Reaper, the O'Sullivans want a meet. They're saying the ledger your sister died for is in that book." His eyes flicked to Elena, intense and conflicted, and she felt a chill. Luka knew something—about her father, maybe about Dante—and his gaze held too much weight for a loyal second-in-command.
"Ledger?" she asked, voice sharp, testing them. The journal had mentioned a ledger—proof of Marco's cartel ties, her father's last stand. If it was tied to Dante's sister, the web of betrayal ran deeper than she thought.
Dante's jaw clenched, his hand tightening on her arm. "You don't speak unless I say so, angel." His voice was low, a growl that sent heat curling through her despite her defiance. He pushed her into the SUV's backseat, sliding in beside her, his thigh brushing hers. The contact was electric, explicit in its unspoken claim, and her breath hitched, her inexperience making every touch a firestorm.
Luka took the driver's seat, two Volkov enforcers piling in front. The SUV peeled out of the garage, Chicago's streets a blur of neon and rain. Sirens wailed in the distance—cops, cartel, or worse, all hunting them. Elena's mind raced, the journal's secrets a puzzle she needed to crack. Marco's betrayal was clear—he'd sold her to the cartel to cover his debts. But the O'Sullivan claim, tying her to Dante's sister's death, was a new blade at her throat.
"Where are we going?" she asked, her voice steady despite the fear gnawing her insides. She shifted, the journal's edges digging into her skin, a reminder to keep her guard up.
Dante's eyes flicked to her, dark and unreadable. "Somewhere you won't get us killed." His hand rested on his gun, close to her thigh, and the proximity was deliberate, a power play that made her flush. "You're a magnet for trouble, Elena. What's in that journal that's got everyone so desperate?"
She met his stare, defiance her only weapon. "Maybe it's got your secrets, Reaper." Her words were a jab, testing him, and his smirk widened, dangerous but laced with something hotter—desire, maybe, or amusement at her fire.
"Keep pushing, angel," he murmured, leaning closer, his voice a velvet threat. "I'll find out one way or another." His hand moved, slow and deliberate, brushing her knee, then sliding up her thigh, stopping just short of the journal. The touch was explicit, possessive, sending a shiver through her virgin body. Her thighs clenched, heat pooling low, and she hated how her inexperience made his every move a revelation—terrifying, thrilling, wrong. She grabbed his wrist, her nails digging in, but his smirk only deepened, their chemistry a live wire.
The SUV swerved, Luka cursing as headlights flared behind them. "We've got a tail," he growled, glancing in the rearview. "Cartel, looks like. Hold on."
Dante's hand snapped back, his gun up, his body shielding Elena as bullets pinged off the SUV's armored shell. The chase was on—two cartel cars roared behind them, their guns blazing. Luka took a sharp turn, tires screeching through a narrow alley, neon signs blurring past. Elena gripped the seat, her heart in her throat, but her mind stayed sharp. She needed an ally, someone to trust, and neither Dante nor Marco fit the bill.
"Get down!" Dante barked, shoving her head as a bullet shattered the rear window. He and the enforcers returned fire, the SUV shaking with muzzle flashes. Elena ducked low, her hand brushing the journal, and an idea sparked. If the ledger was real, it was her leverage—proof to expose Marco, maybe even Dante. She had to decode it, but not here, not with bullets flying and his eyes on her.
A woman's voice cut through the chaos—sharp, familiar. "Volkov! Pull over!" A motorcycle roared alongside the SUV, its rider weaving through gunfire. Talia Moretti, all leather and defiance, her face half-hidden by a helmet. Her dark eyes locked on Elena's through the window, a burner phone in her hand. "Take it!" she shouted, tossing the phone through a cracked window. It landed in Elena's lap, a lifeline she didn't expect.
Dante cursed, firing at the cartel cars. "Who the hell's your friend, Elena?"
"She's not my friend," Elena said, but she pocketed the phone, her mind racing. Talia had been at the docks, watching from the shadows. If she knew about the journal, she was either an ally or another threat. Either way, Elena needed options.
Luka swerved into an abandoned lot, the SUV behind a rusted warehouse. "We can't outrun them," he said, gun drawn. "We fight."
Dante kicked the door open, pulling Elena out. "Stay close, or you're dead." His grip was a command, but his body was a shield, protective and possessive, and the heat of him made her dizzy. They took cover behind the warehouse, the cartel cars screeching to a stop. Eight hitmen spilled out, their tattoos glinting under sodium lights—skulls, serpents, the same cartel tied to Marco.
The fight was brutal. Dante moved like a machine, dropping two with headshots, his gun an extension of his rage. Luka fought hand-to-hand, his knife flashing as he gutted an attacker, blood spraying. Elena's hands shook, but when a hitman lunged at her, his knife aimed at her chest, she didn't freeze. She grabbed a loose brick from the ground, smashing it into his temple. He crumpled, blood pooling, and her stomach churned—she'd killed, maybe, and the weight of it hit hard.
Dante's eyes flicked to her, a spark of approval in his dark gaze. "Not so fragile, angel," he said, his voice rough, and the heat between them flared, explicit and raw, even amid blood and chaos. Her dress was gone, the oversized shirt riding up, and his eyes lingered on her exposed skin, making her feel hunted, wanted, alive.
The last cartel thug fell, and silence settled, broken only by Luka's heavy breaths. Talia's motorcycle was gone, but the burner phone burned in Elena's pocket. She needed to contact her, decode the journal, find the ledger—but Dante's suspicion was a noose tightening around her.
"We're not safe here," Luka said, wiping blood from his knife. "The O'Sullivans want that meet, Reaper. They're saying the ledger's the key to your sister's killer."
Dante's face darkened, a shadow crossing his features. His sister's death was a wound, and Elena's journal was tied to it. He turned to her, his hand grabbing her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. "What do you know about my sister?" he demanded, his voice a blade. His fingers were firm, possessive, sliding to her throat, and the 18+ tension ignited, her virgin body responding despite the fear. His touch was explicit, a claim she couldn't escape, and her pulse raced under his thumb.
"Nothing," she lied, her voice trembling. The journal's secrets—Marco's cartel ties, the ledger, her father's death—were hers to guard, but Dante's gaze stripped her bare. She couldn't tell him, not when he might be the Reaper who killed her father.
Before he could press further, Luka's phone buzzed. He listened, his face hardening. "It's Marco," he said, holding it out. "He's at the fight club. Wants to renegotiate."
Dante's eyes narrowed, his hand still on Elena's throat, the heat between them a live wire. "Renegotiate, my ass," he growled. "He's playing us." He released her, but his touch lingered, a promise of more to come—answers, desire, or both.
They piled back into the SUV, the city's neon a blur as Luka drove toward the fight club—a Volkov stronghold buried under a derelict gym.
Elena's mind raced, the journal and burner phone her only leverage. Marco's betrayal was clear, but the O'Sullivan claim tied her to Dante's sister, and Luka's too-intense stares hinted at secrets he wasn't sharing. She was trapped, her virginity a prize, her life a bargaining chip, and the man beside her was both her captor and her obsession.
The fight club loomed ahead, its neon sign flickering. Dante's hand rested on her thigh, a possessive claim that sent heat through her despite everything. "Stay close, angel," he murmured, his voice a low growl. "This is about to get bloody."
As they stepped out, a shadow moved in the alley—Talia, her motorcycle idling. She lifted her helmet, eyes locking on Elena's. "The journal," she mouthed, nodding to the burner phone. "It's bigger than you think."
Elena's heart stopped. Talia knew about the ledger, and if she did, others would too. Before she could react, Dante grabbed her arm, pulling her toward the club. The doors swung open, revealing Marco's smug face, flanked by cartel enforcers. His eyes gleamed with greed, and Elena realized—she wasn't just a hostage anymore. She was the key to a war that would burn Chicago to the ground.