Chapter Eighteen
Nina's POV
The morning started quietly.
Too quietly, I would realize later. Like the world was holding its breath before screaming.
I sat at the kitchen island, nursing a cup of coffee Nana had pressed into my hands. She hummed softly while chopping vegetables for lunch, the knife making rhythmic thunks against the cutting board. Sunlight streamed through the windows, turning everything warm and golden.
Normal. Almost peaceful.
Nikolai stood at the stove, shirtless in gray sweatpants, flipping pancakes like he didn't have a care in the world. His back was a canvas of scars and tattoos, muscles shifting under skin with each movement.
I'd been watching him more than I should. Remembering what Enzo had said last night. Remembering how they'd sent Isabela away the second I left Dante's office.
Remembering that I mattered.
"You're staring, kotyonok," Nikolai said without turning around.
Heat flooded my cheeks. "I'm not."
"You are." He glanced over his shoulder, a small smile playing at his lips. "It's okay. I like it."
Before I could respond, the world exploded.
Alarms screamed to life, so loud I dropped my coffee cup. It shattered on the floor, hot liquid splashing my legs.
Then came the gunfire.
Not distant. Not outside the property.
Right outside the house.
Automatic weapons, multiple shooters, the rapid-fire bursts echoing through the walls like thunder.
"Get down!" Nikolai roared.
He was moving before I could process, grabbing me and throwing me to the floor behind the island. My shoulder hit tile hard enough to make me gasp. Nana screamed somewhere to my left.
The windows exploded inward.
Glass rained down in a glittering storm. Bullets punched through walls, through cabinets, through everything. Wood splintered. Marble cracked. The air filled with the smell of gunpowder and destruction.
"Nana!" I screamed.
But Nikolai was already pulling me up, one arm locked around my waist, half carrying me toward the hallway. "Panic room. Now. Move!"
"But Nana—"
"Marco's got her. Move!"
More gunfire. Closer now. I heard shouting in the distance, men's voices barking orders. Engines revving. The heavy thud of boots on the ground.
We made it to the hallway just as Enzo appeared, gun in one hand, phone in the other. He was fully dressed, tactical vest over his shirt, moving with lethal precision.
His eyes found mine. "How many?"
"At least fifteen," Nikolai said. "Three vehicles. Military-grade weapons. Coordinated assault on all entry points."
Fifteen men. Here to take me. To kill anyone in their way.
My fault. Again.
"Where's Dante?" Enzo demanded.
"East wing. He's got six guards holding the main entrance."
"It won't be enough." Enzo grabbed my other arm. "Get her to the panic room. I'll cover you."
They moved as one, propelling me down the hallway at a run. Behind us, I heard the front door explode inward. Heard shouting. Heard our guards returning fire.
Heard screaming.
We rounded a corner. The panic room was at the end of this hall, behind the study. So close. Just fifty more feet.
Then a man appeared at the far end of the hallway.
Not one of ours.
He was dressed in black tactical gear, face covered by a mask, rifle already coming up.
Enzo shoved me behind him and fired.
Three shots. Center mass.
The man went down, blood spraying the white walls behind him.
But more were coming. I could hear them. Boots pounding. Voices shouting coordinates.
"Go!" Enzo barked at Nikolai. "Get her there. I'll hold them."
"You can't—"
"I said go!"
Nikolai hesitated for half a second. Then he grabbed me and ran.
Behind us, Enzo's gun roared to life. I heard bodies hitting the floor. Heard him reloading with practiced efficiency.
We made it to the study. Nikolai slammed the door, locked it, and shoved a heavy bookcase in front of it.
"The panic room—" I started.
"Is through there." He pointed to the hidden door behind Dante's desk. "But we need to—"
The window exploded.
Two men crashed through in a shower of glass, landing in crouches, weapons raised.
Nikolai moved like lightning.
He threw me toward the panic room door, then turned on the intruders. No gun. No weapon. Just his bare hands and rage.
The first man fired.
Missed.
Nikolai was already inside his guard, one hand grabbing the rifle barrel, the other smashing into the man's throat. I heard something crunch. The man dropped, choking, dying.
The second man swung his rifle like a club.
Connected with Nikolai's ribs.
He grunted but didn't go down. Instead, he grabbed the rifle, yanked it from the man's hands, and reversed it in one smooth motion.
Brought the stock down on the man's skull.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Blood sprayed. Bone cracked. The man collapsed in a heap.
Nikolai stood over the bodies, chest heaving, covered in blood that wasn't his.
"Nina. Panic room. Now."
I couldn't move. Couldn't think. Could only stare at the two dead men on the floor, their blood pooling on the expensive rug.
"Nina!" He grabbed my arm, dragged me toward the hidden door.
But before we could reach it, the barricaded study door exploded inward.
The bookcase toppled. Wood splintered.
Four men poured through, weapons up, shouting in a language I didn't recognize.
Nikolai pushed me behind him again. Raised the rifle he'd taken.
Fired.
One man down. Two. Three.
The fourth got a shot off.
I saw Nikolai's body jerk. Saw blood bloom across his side.
But he didn't stop. Didn't slow. Just kept advancing, kept firing, until the fourth man was down too.
Then he swayed.
"Nikolai!" I caught him as his knees buckled.
"I'm fine." His voice was tight with pain. "Just grazed me. Get to the—"
Dante appeared in the doorway.
He looked like something from a nightmare. His white shirt was soaked with blood, both his and others'. He had a gun in each hand, a knife strapped to his thigh. His face was cold, empty, terrifying.
"How many?" he asked Nikolai.
"Four here. Enzo's got the hallway."
"East wing is clear. Ten down. At least five more somewhere in the house." His eyes found mine, and something flickered there. Relief? Fear? I couldn't tell. "You hurt?"
I shook my head.
"Good. Get her to the panic room. Now. I'll find the rest."
"You're shot," I said. Because he was. His left shoulder was bleeding, the wound visible through the torn fabric.
"I've had worse." He turned to leave.
"Dante!"
He stopped. Looked back.
"Be careful," I whispered.
Something in his expression softened. Just for a second. Then it was gone, replaced by ice and death.
"Always am, baby."
He disappeared into the hallway. I heard gunfire erupt immediately, heard him shouting orders in Italian, heard more bodies hitting the floor.
Nikolai pulled me toward the panic room door. "Come on. Before—"
More gunfire. Closer. Right outside the study.
Then Enzo backed through the doorway, firing as he moved. His arm was bleeding, jacket torn, but his hands were steady.
"Three more," he said without turning around. "Coming fast. Get her inside."
"What about you?" I asked.
"I'll be right behind you."
Liar. I could hear it in his voice.
Nikolai must have heard it too because he hesitated, torn between protecting me and leaving his brother to fight alone.
"Go!" Enzo barked.
The decision was made for us.
Three men appeared in the hallway. Professional. Armed. Moving in formation.
Enzo fired. Dropped one.
The other two returned fire.
Bullets punched through the door frame. Through the walls. Through everything.
Enzo dove behind Dante's desk. Returned fire. Dropped the second man.
But the third got through.
Burst into the study, rifle raised, aiming at Enzo's exposed position.
Nikolai didn't hesitate.
He threw himself in front of me, grabbed a paperweight from Dante's desk, and hurled it with lethal precision.
It caught the man in the temple.
He staggered.
Enzo put two bullets in his chest.
He went down.
Silence.
Heavy. Ringing.
For a moment, no one moved. We all just stood there, breathing hard, surrounded by bodies and blood and destruction.
Then Dante's voice crackled over Enzo's radio. "Clear. East wing clear. South wing clear. Perimeter secure. They're retreating."
Enzo sagged slightly, lowering his weapon. "Copy. Study is secure. We have the package."
The package. Me.
I looked around the study. Six bodies. Blood everywhere. The walls were Swiss cheese, bullet holes punched through expensive wood and plaster. The window was gone. Glass glittered like diamonds across the floor.
Nikolai was bleeding from his side, one hand pressed against the wound. Enzo's arm dripped steadily, leaving a trail on the floor. Dante was shot too, somewhere in the house, still hunting for stragglers.
They were hurt. Bleeding. Exhausted.
Because of me.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm so sorry."
Nikolai's hand cupped my face, gentle despite the blood coating his fingers. "Not your fault, kotyonok."
"Yes, it is. They came for me. People died because—"
"People died because they tried to take you," Enzo cut in. His voice was firm. Final. "And we will kill anyone who tries. Every time. Without hesitation. That's not on you. That's on them."
Footsteps in the hallway.
We all tensed.
Then Dante appeared in the doorway, holstering his weapons. He was bleeding more heavily now, his entire left side dark with blood.
"All clear," he said. His eyes swept the room, cataloging the bodies, the damage, his brothers' injuries. Then they landed on me. "You okay?"
I nodded. Couldn't speak past the lump in my throat.
He walked over, moving stiffly, and touched my face. Checked me over with clinical efficiency. Satisfied I was unharmed, he turned to Nikolai.
"How bad?"
"Through and through. Missed anything important."
"Enzo?"
"Flesh wound."
Dante nodded once. Then he swayed.
I caught him before Enzo could. His weight was heavy against me, solid and warm and bleeding.
"You're not fine," I said.
"I will be." But his voice was weaker now. The adrenaline was fading.
"Sit down before you fall down."
For once, he listened. Let me guide him to the chair behind his desk. He sat heavily, breathing hard.
I could see the wound now. The bullet had gone through his shoulder, front to back. Still bleeding. Not fatal, but bad.
"We need the doctor," I said.
"Already called," Enzo said. "He's on his way."
Nikolai moved to the door. "I'll do a final sweep. Make sure we didn't miss anyone."
"I'll help," Enzo said.
"You're both bleeding," I protested.
"So is he." Nikolai nodded at Dante. "You keep pressure on that. We'll be back."
They left before I could argue.
And then it was just me and Dante.
Alone in a room full of bodies and blood.
I looked at him. This man who'd bought me. Who'd dragged me to a dungeon. Who'd forced me to watch torture and made me clean blood off stone floors.
This man who'd given me his blood to save my life. Who'd sent away every other woman. Who'd just taken a bullet because he put himself between the attackers and me.
"You could have died," I whispered.
"But I didn't."
"You were shot protecting me."
"Yes." He looked at me with those dark, unreadable eyes. "I would do it again. Every time."
"Why?"
The question hung between us.
Dante reached up with his good hand and touched my face. His fingers were sticky with blood, but gentle.
"You know why," he said quietly.
I did. God help me, I did.
Because I was theirs. Because somewhere in the chaos and violence and fear, I'd become something more than property. More than collateral.
I'd become someone worth dying for.
And they'd become the only people in the world I trusted to keep me alive.
"Let me help," I said.
I found a first aid kit in the desk drawer. Started cleaning the wound as best I could. It was bad. Really bad. The bullet had torn through muscle and tissue, leaving a ragged hole that wouldn't stop bleeding.
"You need surgery," I said.
"The doctor will handle it."
"Dante—"
"I'm fine, Nina." His hand covered mine. "I've had worse."
"That doesn't make this okay."
"No," he agreed. "But it's reality. This is what our world looks like. This is what protecting you costs."
I looked at him. At the blood soaking his shirt. At the exhaustion in his eyes. At the bodies littering the floor around us.
"I don't want you to die for me," I said.
"Then stop trying to run." His fingers tightened on mine. "Stop fighting what this is. Accept that you're ours. That we will protect you. That we will kill for you. That we will die for you if necessary."
Tears burned behind my eyes. "I'm not worth this."
"That's not your decision to make."
The doctor arrived twenty minutes later with a full surgical team. They set up in Dante's bedroom, turned it into a makeshift operating room.
I wasn't allowed in.
I paced the hallway outside while they worked. Enzo and Nikolai sat against the wall, both bandaged now, both watching me wear a path in the carpet.
"He'll be fine," Enzo said.
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do. He's too stubborn to die."
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to trust that Dante would walk out of that room whole and alive.
But I'd seen too much blood. Seen too many bodies. Couldn't shake the image of him swaying, bleeding, in pain because of me.
The door opened.
The doctor emerged, stripping off bloody gloves.
"He's stable," he said before I could ask. "The bullet missed the major vessels. I repaired the tissue damage and closed the wound. He'll need rest and antibiotics, but he should make a full recovery."
Relief hit me so hard my knees went weak.
Nikolai caught me. "Told you."
"Can I see him?"
The doctor hesitated. "He's sedated. He won't wake for several hours."
"I don't care. Can I see him?"
He nodded. "Five minutes."
I slipped into the room.
Dante lay on his bed, pale against the dark sheets. Bandages covered his shoulder, pristine white against his skin. An IV dripped into his arm. Monitors beeped softly in the corner.
He looked younger in sleep. Less dangerous. Almost vulnerable.
I sat in the chair beside the bed and took his hand. His fingers were cool, but his pulse beat steady and strong.
"You're an idiot," I told him. "Getting shot for me. For what? For property? For collateral?"
But even as I said it, I knew it wasn't true.
He hadn't been protecting property.
He'd been protecting me.
Nina. The girl he'd bought but somewhere along the way started to care about.
The girl who'd stopped being just a transaction and become something he'd kill for. Die for.
I looked at our joined hands. His blood and mine, mixed together now in more ways than one.
I should have been terrified. Should have been planning my escape. Should have been looking for the first opportunity to run.
Instead, I lifted his hand to my lips and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.
"Don't you dare die on me," I whispered. "Not now. Not when I'm finally starting to understand."
Understand what?
That I was falling for my captors. That I'd started to crave their protection, their possession, their violence.
That I felt safer covered in blood in their war zone than I ever had in my father's world.
That I was theirs. Completely. Irrevocably.
Whether I'd chosen it or not.
And God help me, I was starting to choose it.