Chapter 4: Blood and Lust in the Tunnels
The tunnels under Chicago smelled of death, but Elena felt alive in Dante's grip. The fight club's neon sign flickered above as he dragged her through a hidden door behind the bar, Marco's smug face and his cartel goons burned into her mind.
Her uncle's betrayal was a blade in her gut—selling her to Dante as a hostage was bad enough, but now he'd brought the cartel to finish the job. The journal in her waistband, its coded pages hinting at a ledger that could expose Marco's dirty deals, was her only leverage.
Talia's warning—"It's bigger than you think"—echoed, and the burner phone in her pocket felt like a ticking bomb. Dante's hand on her arm was iron, his touch sparking heat through her virgin skin, and Elena hated how her body craved him even as she questioned if he was her father's killer.
"Move, angel," Dante growled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her. His black suit was streaked with blood from the penthouse ambush, his dark eyes blazing with fury and something hotter—possession, maybe, or obsession.
The tunnel was a damp, claustrophobic maze of concrete and rusted pipes, lit by flickering bulbs that cast shadows like ghosts. Luka followed close behind, his scarred face tense, gun drawn, while two Volkov enforcers covered the rear. The air was thick with mold and gunpowder, the distant sound of boots echoing—Marco's cartel hitmen were coming.
Elena's heart pounded, her oversized shirt—Dante's shirt—clinging to her sweat-slick skin. The journal pressed against her ribs, its secrets a weight she couldn't shake. Marco was tied to the cartel, her father's death was tied to Dante's syndicate, and now the O'Sullivans claimed she was linked to Dante's sister's killer. Every step in this tunnel felt like walking deeper into a trap, and the man beside her was both her shield and her cage.
"Where the hell are we going?" she asked, her voice sharp despite the fear clawing her chest. She yanked her arm, testing his grip, but it only tightened, his fingers brushing her hip, sending a jolt through her untouched body.
Dante's eyes flicked to her, dark and unreadable. "Somewhere Marco's dogs can't sniff us out."
His tone was a warning, but his gaze lingered on her lips, her throat, the curve of her hips under the shirt. The 18+ tension was electric, her inexperience making every glance a fire she couldn't extinguish. "You're asking too many questions for a hostage."
"And you're holding me too close for a captor," she shot back, defiance her only armor. His smirk was a blade, cutting through her resolve, and the heat between them flared, dangerous and wrong.
Luka's voice cut through, sharp and urgent. "Reaper, we've got company." He nodded back, where shadows moved in the tunnel. The cartel was closing in, their footsteps heavy, voices barking in Spanish. Dante cursed, pulling Elena behind a rusted steel beam, his body pressed against hers, hard and unyielding. His gun was at her side, a reminder of his power, but his breath on her neck was a different kind of threat—one her virgin body couldn't ignore.
"Stay still," he whispered, his lips grazing her ear, the contact explicit, sending heat pooling low. Her thighs clenched, her pulse racing as his hand slid to her waist, fingers digging into her skin. She should hate him, fear him, but her body was a traitor, responding to every touch with a need she didn't understand. "You move, you die," he added, but his voice was softer, almost protective, and it fucked with her head.
Before she could snap back, gunfire erupted, bullets ricocheting off the walls. Dante fired back, his arm steady, dropping a cartel thug with a headshot. Luka and the enforcers joined in, the tunnel a chaos of muzzle flashes and screams.
Elena's hands shook, but she spotted a knife on the ground—a cartel hitter's blade, dropped in the fray. She grabbed it, the handle cold against her palm, and when a thug lunged at her, she didn't hesitate. She slashed, catching his arm, blood spraying her shirt. He screamed, stumbling back, and Dante's eyes flicked to her, a glint of approval mixed with hunger.
"Not bad, angel," he said, his voice rough as he gunned down another. Their eyes locked, the air between them charged with blood and lust, her virgin skin burning under his gaze. The fight raged, but the moment felt frozen, their chemistry a live wire in the chaos.
The cartel fell back, their numbers thinning, but the tunnel was a deathtrap—narrow, no exits. Luka shouted,
"There's a junction ahead! Leads to the fight club's basement!" Dante nodded, pulling Elena along, his hand on her lower back, possessive and hot. She clutched the knife, the journal, the burner phone, her mind racing. Talia's warning meant she knew about the ledger—proof of Marco's betrayal, maybe more. If Elena could decode it, she could turn the tables, but not with Dante watching her every move.
They reached the junction, a cavernous split in the tunnels, crates and barrels stacked like a maze. Dante shoved Elena behind a crate, his body shielding hers, their faces inches apart. The 18+ heat ignited, explicit and raw, as his hand slid to her hip, fingers brushing the journal's edge.
"What's in there, Elena?" he demanded, his voice a growl, his lips so close she could taste the danger. Her breath hitched, her body responding despite the journal's warning—"The Reaper's blade took my life."
"Nothing you'd understand," she lied, her voice trembling but defiant. His fingers tightened, his body pressing closer, and the heat was overwhelming, her inexperience making every touch a revelation. His lips hovered over hers, a kiss she both feared and craved, her virgin body screaming for something she didn't know how to handle.
Before he could close the distance, a shout echoed—Luka, waving them toward a steel door. "Move, now!" The cartel was back, their gunfire louder, closer. Dante cursed, pulling Elena through the door into a dank basement, the fight club's underbelly. The air was thick with sweat and blood, the distant roar of a crowd above signaling an ongoing fight. Cages, lockers, and rusted pipes lined the walls, a perfect place to hide—or die.
Elena's mind raced to the burner phone. Talia was her only shot at answers, but contacting her meant risking Dante's wrath. She slipped behind a locker, pretending to catch her breath, and pulled out the phone. A single message from Talia: "Ledger's in a vault under the club. Find it before Marco does." Her heart stopped. The ledger was here, and Talia knew where. But how? And why trust her?
Dante's shadow loomed, his gun still drawn. "What the hell are you doing?" he snapped, grabbing her wrist, the phone clattering to the floor. His eyes darkened, suspicion a blade between them. "You're playing a dangerous game, angel."
Before she could answer, the door exploded inward, cartel hitmen storming in. Dante shoved Elena behind him, firing as Luka and the enforcers fought back. The basement became a slaughterhouse—knives flashed, blood sprayed, and Elena's knife found another target, her hands shaking but her aim true. She wasn't helpless, not anymore, but the weight of killing clung to her like the blood on her shirt.
In the chaos, she spotted a grate in the floor, marked with a faint serpent-and-dagger symbol—the same as the journal, the same as the O'Sullivan hitter's tattoo. Her breath caught. The vault was real, and it was here. She glanced at Dante, locked in a brutal fight, his shirt torn, muscles gleaming with sweat. He was a killer, maybe her father's killer, but he was also keeping her alive—for now.
The last cartel thug fell, and silence settled, broken only by Luka's heavy breathing. He wiped blood from his face, his eyes flicking to Elena, too intense, too knowing. "Reaper, we can't stay," he said, but his gaze lingered on her, and she felt it—he knew something about the ledger, the vault, her father.
Dante grabbed her arm, pulling her close, his body a wall of heat and danger. "No more secrets," he growled, his hand sliding to her throat, possessive, explicit, sparking heat through her virgin skin. "You're mine, Elena, and I don't share—not with Marco, not with anyone." His lips were inches from hers, the 18+ tension a fire she couldn't escape, her body betraying her with a need she hated.
Before she could respond, Luka's phone buzzed, his face paling as he listened. "It's the O'Sullivans," he said, voice tight. "They've got proof your sister's killer worked for Marco—and they're saying Elena's father knew him."
Dante's grip tightened, his eyes boring into hers, suspicion and hunger warring. The journal, the ledger, the vault—it was all connected, and Elena was the key. But now Marco was coming, and the cartel was on their heels. The basement door rattled, voices shouting outside, and Elena realized the truth—she wasn't just a hostage. She was the spark that could burn Chicago's underworld to ashes.