The argument had been building for days.
It lived in the silences between them, in the looks Lena caught when Dante thought she wasn't watching, in the way the estate seemed to tighten around her as the city burned beyond its walls.
Tonight, it finally exploded.
Lena stood in the middle of the sitting room, fists clenched at her sides, heart pounding hard enough that she felt it in her throat. The massive windows reflected her image back at her, small, furious, trapped.
Dante stood near the fireplace, calm in a way that felt deliberate. Controlled. As if control were the only thing holding him together.
"You don't get to do this," Lena said, breaking the silence.
Dante didn't look at her. "Do what?"
"Use me," she snapped. "Use my life as an excuse to destroy everything."
His jaw tightened. "Sit down."
"No."
The word landed like a challenge.
Dante finally turned, dark eyes sharp. "You're crossing a line."
"You crossed it first," she shot back. "The moment you decided revenge mattered more than lives."
He stepped toward her slowly. "You think this war exists because of you?"
"Yes!" Her voice cracked. "And you let it."
Dante stopped a few feet away, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him. "Your father started this long before you existed."
"And you're continuing it," she said. "You're no better than him."
The words hit.
Harder than she expected.
Dante's expression went still, dangerous in its restraint. "You have no idea what you're talking about."
"I know people are dying," Lena said, her voice shaking now. "I hear the sirens. I see the blood on you when you come back. You're turning the city into a graveyard just to hurt one man."
"He deserves it."
"So did the people he's killing?" she demanded. "Did they deserve it too?"
Silence stretched between them.
For the first time, Dante didn't have an immediate answer.
"You don't understand what he took from me," he said quietly.
"Then tell me," Lena said. "Because from where I'm standing, you look exactly like him."
Something dark flared in his eyes.
"Careful," he warned.
"I'm not afraid of you."
He laughed softly. "That's obvious."
"And that's why this works for you," she continued. "You get to feel powerful while pretending you're justified."
Dante's hand slammed into the wall beside her, the sound sharp and sudden. She flinched despite herself.
"You think this is about power?" he growled. "You think I wanted this?"
"Then stop," she said, breathless but unyielding. "Let me go. End this."
His laughter this time was bitter. "You really believe that would end anything?"
"Yes."
"No," he snapped. "Your father would still come. He would still kill. And you would still be his shield."
She shook her head. "You don't know that."
"I know him," Dante said. "I know what men like him do."
"And what about men like you?" she asked. "What do they do?"
The question lingered.
Dante straightened slowly, his voice lowering. "Men like me finish what's started."
Lena felt a chill run down her spine.
"So that's it?" she whispered. "You destroy everything and call it justice?"
He met her gaze, something raw flickering beneath the surface. "I live with the consequences."
"And what about me?" she demanded. "Do I just survive yours?"
The words hit something fragile.
Dante looked away first.
"You're alive," he said. "That's more than most people get."
"That's not living," she replied.
Silence pressed in again, heavy and suffocating.
"You shouldn't care this much," Dante said eventually. "It'll only hurt you."
"I don't care because I want to," Lena shot back. "I care because I'm trapped in the middle of your war."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Then stop pretending you have a choice."
Her eyes burned. "I do have a choice."
"Not here."
"Then this place isn't a cage," she said bitterly. "It's a grave."
Dante froze.
The words landed deeper than she intended.
"You don't get to judge me," he said quietly. "Not when you're alive because of me."
"And you don't get to decide who dies because of you."
Their gazes locked, tension snapping tight between them.
For a moment, Lena thought he might shout. Or lash out.
Instead, he exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face.
"You think letting you go would make this stop," he said. "It wouldn't. It would only make you vulnerable."
She swallowed. "So you'll cage me to protect me?"
"To control the damage," he corrected.
"That's not protection," she whispered. "That's ownership."
The word hung between them, dangerous and intimate.
Dante's eyes darkened.
"You think I want to own you?"
"I think you already do," Lena said. "And that scares you."
The truth hit harder than any insult.
Dante stepped back abruptly, breaking the closeness. "This conversation is over."
"No," Lena said. "It isn't."
"I said…."
"You don't get to walk away," she snapped. "Not after everything."
Dante turned sharply. "You don't know what walking away costs."
"Then tell me."
He stared at her for a long moment, something fractured and furious in his expression.
"you'd get to know" he said finally.
The room went silent.
Lena's breath hitched.
"I was sixteen," Dante said. "I watched everything burn."
The anger drained from her, replaced by something colder and heavier.
"I didn't know," she whispered.
"That doesn't change anything."
"No," she agreed. "But it explains it."
Their eyes met again, no longer enemies, not allies either.
"Revenge won't bring them back," Lena said softly.
"No," Dante replied. "But it reminds the world they mattered."
"And what about the people dying now?" she asked. "Do they matter?"
His silence was answer enough.
The argument burned itself out, leaving ash behind.
"Get some rest," Dante said at last. "This war isn't ending tonight."
As he walked away, Lena sank onto the couch, exhaustion crashing over her.
This wasn't just hatred.
It was grief.
And she was trapped between two men who had built empires on it.
Outside, the city continued to bleed.
Inside, something between captor and captive had shifted.
The war was no longer just about revenge.
Now, it was personal.