Chapter 7 - Blood on the Snow
Inside the reinforced safe room, time seemed to stretch indefinitely. The thick steel walls muffled the sounds of conflict outside, leaving only the steady hum of the air filtration system and the heavy breathing of the three survivors. Marco patched his wounded shoulder with a medical kit from the wall, while Aara sat beside Isabella, holding the older woman’s hand tightly.
After twenty agonizing minutes, the heavy steel door hummed. A electronic chime sounded as the override code was entered from the outside.
Marco immediately raised his weapon, pointing it at the door.
The heavy vault door swung open. Standing in the doorway was Dante.
He was covered in snow and dark blood. His coat was torn, a tactical rifle slung over his shoulder, and his dark eyes burned with an icy fury that terrified even his own men standing behind him. He scanned the room instantly, his gaze sweeping over Marco, his mother, and finally settling on Aara.
When he saw her sitting on the floor unharmed, the terrifying tension in his frame visibly eased.
“Dante,” Isabella cried out, reaching for him.
Dante stepped into the room, lowering his weapon. He knelt beside his mother, checking her quickly before turning his attention to Marco.
“Valeri was the leak,” Marco reported, pointing to the unconscious traitor tied up in the corner. “He brought Petrov’s strike team through the north gate. Miss Hayes took him down before he could fire.”
Dante turned his head slowly to look at Aara. His expression was a complex mix of disbelief, intense relief, and something much deeper that he could no longer conceal.
“You saved my family again,” Dante said softly, his voice thick with unexpressed emotion.
“I hit him with an extinguisher,” Aara said faintly, her voice shaking as the shock finally set in. “I didn't know what else to do.”
Dante reached out, his large, blood-stained hand gently cupping the back of her neck. He pulled her forward until her forehead rested against his chest. Aara collapsed into his embrace, wrapping her arms around his waist as tears finally broke through her eyes. He held her tightly, his chin resting on her head, shielding her from the violent world outside.
“It’s over,” Dante murmured into her hair. “The estate is secure. Petrov’s strike team is dead.”
He stood up, carrying Aara effortlessly in his arms as he stepped out of the safe room into the hallway. The estate was heavily damaged—bullet holes marked the plaster, broken glass covered the marble floors, and several of Dante’s men were attending to the wounded.
Dante carried her all the way up to his private suite on the top floor—a sanctuary no one else was permitted to enter. He set her down gently on a massive leather sofa before a blazing fireplace.
He fetched a warm blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders, then poured two fingers of amber whiskey into a crystal glass, handing it to her.
“Drink,” he ordered gently.
Aara took a small sip, feeling the liquid burn down her throat, warming her frozen insides. Dante sat on the edge of the low table in front of her, leaning closer.
“Petrov made his final mistake tonight,” Dante said quietly, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “He attacked my home. He tried to take my mother, and he put you in danger.”
“What are you going to do?” Aara asked softly.
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“I am going to end this war tomorrow,” Dante replied, his voice absolute and final. “And once Petrov is gone, you will be free, Aara. Truly free to go back to your life.”
Aara looked at him, feeling a sudden, unexpected pang of sadness in her chest. She had wanted her freedom more than anything since the night she was taken. But looking at the man sitting before her—a man who had protected her, honored her, and shared his world with her—she realized that returning to her old life meant leaving him behind forever.
