Fire and Blood
The gunshot still echoed in Elena's ears.
Her arms shook violently, the pistol slipping in her sweaty grip. The acrid stench of gunpowder stung her nose. Smoke curled faintly from the barrel.
The panic room door hung half open, its steel warped from the assault. And beyond it—
A body staggered back.
Carlo.
He cursed, clutching his side, crimson blooming across his shirt. His sneer twisted with pain, but his eyes—those cruel, mocking eyes—burned with fury rather than defeat.
"You little…" he hissed, his voice jagged. "You actually shot me."
Elena's breath came fast, shallow. She'd hit him. She didn't know how, didn't remember pulling the trigger with certainty—but she had.
And now, the Devil himself was bleeding because of her.
Isabella whimpered behind her, clutching her mother's dress. Elena swallowed hard, raised the gun again, though her hands trembled like leaves in the wind.
"I'll do it again," she whispered, her voice breaking but her eyes unflinching. "One step closer and I swear I'll finish it."
Carlo smirked despite the blood seeping between his fingers. "You've got spirit. I see why Lucian clings to you like a drowning man. But spirit…" He stepped forward, teeth bared in a wolfish grin. "…spirit doesn't stop bullets."
He lifted his gun.
Elena froze, paralyzed by the sight of cold steel aimed at her chest. She thought of Isabella, thought of Lucian, thought of everything she hadn't yet lived to see.
And then—
BANG.
Another gunshot thundered through the room, but this time it wasn't hers.
Carlo's eyes widened. His body jerked. He stumbled, collapsing onto the floor with a thud that shook the walls.
Behind him, framed in the smoking doorway, stood Lucian Moretti.
---
Lucian's chest heaved, his shoulder still bleeding, his eyes burning like molten fire. His pistol smoked in his grip. He stepped inside, his gaze locking first on Elena—alive, pale, trembling—and then on Carlo, writhing in pain on the steel floor.
"Elena." His voice was low, ragged.
Her knees nearly buckled with relief. "Lucian…"
He crossed to her in two strides, pulling her into his good arm, crushing her against his chest. He kissed Isabella's hair, his voice breaking. "You're safe. Both of you… safe."
For a heartbeat, time stopped. The war outside didn't matter. The blood, the smoke, the endless violence—all faded under the weight of this one truth: they were still breathing.
But then Carlo groaned.
Lucian turned, his grip on Elena tightening before he gently pushed her and Isabella behind him. He leveled his gun at the man who had haunted his life like a shadow.
Carlo spat blood, grinning through the agony. "You can kill me, Moretti… but you'll never win. Dante's already won. You're fighting a war you can't—"
Lucian fired.
The bullet cut his words in half. Carlo slumped, still at last, his grin frozen in death.
Lucian lowered the gun slowly, his face carved from stone. He stared at Carlo's lifeless body, chest heaving, until Alessandro burst into the room.
"Boss! The grounds are secure—for now. But more of Dante's men will be coming. We need to move."
Lucian nodded once, his eyes never leaving Carlo. "Burn him. Let Dante smell his ashes on the wind."
---
Elena sat on the edge of the cot, Isabella curled against her lap. Her hands still trembled as she smoothed her daughter's hair, whispering soft reassurances she barely believed herself.
She looked up as Lucian knelt before her, his good hand brushing a lock of hair from her face. His touch was gentle, but his eyes were hard, haunted.
"You saved her," he murmured. "You saved both of you. I saw the shot—you hit him before I got here."
Elena swallowed, her throat tight. "I was… so scared. I didn't even think, Lucian. I just—"
He pressed his forehead to hers, cutting her off with silence. His voice came like a vow carved in blood.
"Never doubt this again, Elena. You're stronger than fear. And anyone who dares touch you… dies."
She closed her eyes, torn between relief and dread. Loving him was fire, and fire consumed.
And yet, she knew with unshakable certainty—she would burn with him.
---
Later that night, the mansion stood in ruins. Flames devoured the east wing, black smoke curling into the sky. Men carried the dead out by the dozens.
Lucian stood at the balcony, his shirt torn, his shoulder bandaged. His hand gripped a glass of whiskey he hadn't touched. Below, Carlo's body burned on a pyre, the flames roaring like judgment.
Elena stepped quietly behind him, Isabella asleep in her arms. "Lucian… come inside. You need rest."
He didn't turn. "Rest is for men who have homes, Elena. I don't. Not anymore. Dante just reminded me—nowhere is safe. Not for me. Not for you. Not for her."
Her heart clenched. "Then what do we do?"
His jaw tightened. He finally looked at her, his eyes sharp, cold, but alive with purpose.
"We stop running." He set the glass down with a hard clink. "Dante Marino thinks tonight broke me. But all he did was give me reason to end this. Once and for all."
He turned back to the burning pyre, his voice steel.
"I'm coming for him. And I won't stop until Dante's empire is ashes under my boots."
Elena shivered, holding Isabella tighter. She didn't doubt him. She never would.
But as she looked at the man she loved, a man forged in war and vengeance, she wondered how much of him would be left when the fire finally burned out.