The SUV's tires bit into the asphalt as they tore through the city's outskirts.
Selene's fingers gripped the leather seat, her eyes flicking from the dark road ahead to the side mirrors. She couldn't see anything in the black glass, but her gut kept whispering that someone was behind them.
Not just someone but Dante.
Kieran sat forward now, elbows on his knees, his phone pressed to his ear. His voice was lower than before, almost a growl, speaking Italian in short bursts. Selene had begun to notice something in the way he used the language when it was fast, sharp, and rolling, it was business. But when it dropped into clipped, almost single-word sentences, it meant violence.
This was violence.
When he hung up, she said, "You're calling someone to help us?"
"No," he said, eyes scanning the horizon. "I'm calling someone to hurt them."
Her stomach tightened. "That's not the same thing."
"No," Kieran said. "It isn't."
The SUV banked off the main road and onto a narrower, winding stretch of asphalt lined with tall pines. Moonlight slipped through in silver streaks, flashing across the glass.
Selene glanced back again. Nothing.
Then, a single pair of headlights flared to life in the distance.
She caught it before Kieran did or maybe he'd already noticed, because his voice didn't change when he said, "Don't look again."
"Why?"
"They want you to. They want you to panic."
"Too late."
The corner of his mouth twitched not humor, just acknowledgment. "There's a lot you can't control right now, Selene. But your fear? That's yours. Don't give it to them."
She turned forward, jaw tight. "And what happens when they catch up?"
"They won't," he said simply.
They didn't stop until the trees broke into a clearing, the outline of a sprawling, modernist house silhouetted against the pale smear of dawn.
It was the kind of place she'd expect to see in a magazine flat planes of dark wood and glass, an infinity pool glinting at the edge of the terrace but there was nothing welcoming about it. Something about the angles made it feel more like a fortress than a home.
Kieran didn't park in front. He swung the SUV around back, stopping near a steel garage door that slid open silently at their approach.
Inside, two men were waiting. One was tall and rangy, his blond hair tied back, his forearms bare and inked. The other was broad-shouldered, older, and carried himself with the quiet watchfulness of someone who'd survived too many close calls.
"Clear?" Kieran asked.
The blond nodded. "For now."
That "for now" snagged on Selene's nerves.
Inside, the house was cooler, quieter. No art, no family photographs just clean lines and expensive materials. It was a place built for function, not comfort.
Kieran didn't lead her upstairs. He took her through a corridor lined with closed doors until they reached one at the far end.
"This is yours," he said, pushing it open.
The room was simple: a bed, a desk, a tall wardrobe. The window looked out over the tree line.
Selene stood in the doorway. "No locks?"
"On the inside," he said.
She crossed her arms. "You're giving me a lock so I can keep you out?"
"I'm giving you a lock so you can sleep," he said, already turning away. "I'll be in the study."
She didn't say thank you.
The study turned out to be a war room. Selene found it later, when she couldn't stand sitting in her silent room. Maps were spread across the table, some marked in red, others littered with notes in a sharp, slanted handwriting she recognized as Kieran's.
He was leaning over one of them, speaking to the older man she'd seen in the garage.
"She's not part of this," Kieran was saying.
"With respect," the man said, "if Dante's made her part of it, it's too late to pretend otherwise."
Kieran's jaw flexed. "That's not the same as giving her to him."
The man didn't argue, but his silence said enough.
Selene stepped inside before they noticed her. "You keep talking about me like I'm not here."
Kieran straightened, his eyes flicking to hers. "Because you shouldn't be."
"That's not an answer," she said.
"It's the only one that matters," he said, and turned back to the map.
Her hands curled into fists. "You're making moves without telling me anything. And I'm the one apparently being used as bait, remember?"
The older man's gaze moved between them. "She's right."
Kieran didn't look away from the table. "She's not ready."
Selene took a step closer. "Then make me ready."
That got his attention. Slowly, Kieran looked up. His eyes were cool, assessing, as if weighing whether she actually meant it.
"You think this is a game," he said finally.
"I think you're going to make decisions about my life whether I like it or not," she said. "So I'd rather know the rules before you decide to throw me onto the board."
A long silence.
Then: "Tomorrow morning," he said. "You learn the rules."
Morning came faster than she expected.
When she walked into the garage, Kieran was already there, dressed in black, hands wrapped in tape. A heavy bag hung from the rafters, and he was working it with precise, brutal efficiency.
"Lesson one," he said, without turning. "Your size doesn't matter. Your speed doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is that you end the fight before it starts."
She frowned. "And how am I supposed to do that?"
"By not fighting fair."
The next hour was a blur. He didn't go easy on her, not with his words, not with the drills he made her repeat until her arms trembled. He showed her where to strike, how to twist out of a grip, how to make someone drop a weapon without giving them time to use it.
"Someone puts their hands on you," he said, catching her wrist mid-move, "you don't think, you don't hesitate, you take something from them. Their sight. Their breath. Their balance. Doesn't matter which, as long as they don't get it back."
It was brutal. It was exhausting. And when it was over, she could barely stand.
But when Kieran handed her a bottle of water, there was something in his expression not approval exactly, but a kind of calculation that said she'd surprised him.
They were in the kitchen when the message came.
The blond man from last night, Dante's messenger was dead.
Selene heard it in the low murmur of the older man's voice as he handed Kieran a phone. A single photo filled the screen: the man slumped in a chair, his eyes closed, a dark stain blooming across his shirt.
"Dante's work?" the older man asked.
Kieran's jaw tightened. "No. This is for me."
Selene's stomach twisted. "So what does it mean?"
Kieran looked at her, and for the first time since she'd met him, there was no mask in his expression.
"It means," he said quietly, "that Dante just made his first move."