The docks were silent, except for the soft slap of water against the pier.
Elena's hands were still tied behind her, the rope cutting into her wrists. Viktor Karev paced slowly in front of her, the dim light casting sharp shadows across his face.
"You're very brave, Miss Cruz," he said, tilting his head. "Most women in your position scream and beg. You… you wait. Curious. Clever. Perhaps foolish."
Elena glared at him. "Dante's coming."
Viktor laughed, low and cruel. "Dante Moretti? That man wouldn't know where to start. By the time he finds you, it'll be too late."
Elena swallowed hard. She wanted to scream, to cry, to fight—but fear wrapped around her like chains.
Then she heard it.
A low hum of engines.
A black SUV slipped silently out of the shadows onto the dock.
Viktor froze.
The doors opened.
Dante stepped out.
He didn't run. He didn't shout.
He walked forward like death itself had taken human form.
Every man on the pier tensed. Every weapon lifted. But Dante didn't flinch. His gray eyes scanned the area, calculating.
Then, in a voice that was calm, terrifyingly calm:
"Drop your weapons."
A pause.
"Now."
The men laughed. One of them fired.
Dante moved like lightning.
A shadow blurred across the dock.
Two men were on the ground before they even knew what hit them.
Dante's hands were steady, precise. His gun never wavered.
Another attacker lunged at Elena, knife in hand.
Dante slammed the man into the crate, twisting his wrist until the knife clattered to the ground. Then he kicked him hard, sending him sprawling.
Elena's breath caught.
Dante moved toward her, every step measured, every glance deadly.
"You're safe," he said softly. "Until I say otherwise."
Viktor's eyes narrowed. "You're insane. He's just one man!"
Dante smiled faintly. A predator's smile.
"One man?" he repeated. "One man protects what belongs to him. That's more than you'll ever understand."
Then he stepped forward again. And the fight turned brutal.
Gunfire echoed. Men fell like dominoes.
Dante's movements were fluid, practiced, merciless. A single punch, a twist of the wrist, a shot—every action precise. No hesitation. No mercy.
Elena tried to watch, but fear made her dizzy.
She wanted to run to him, to call his name, but she stayed frozen in the chair.
Dante paused for a moment.
Then he looked straight at her.
"You trust me?"
She swallowed, her throat dry.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Good," he said. "Because I don't plan to fail."
With that, he was gone again, moving like smoke through the chaos.
Minutes—or was it hours?—later, the dock was littered with unconscious men. Viktor was on his knees, a gun pressed to his temple.
Dante looked down at him, expression unreadable.
"You touched her," Dante said softly, each word deliberate, each syllable heavy with danger. "That's your only mistake."
Viktor smiled weakly, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"I didn't—"
Dante didn't let him finish.
One hand pressed the gun against Viktor's temple. One finger pulled the trigger.
The shot echoed over the water.
Dante turned.
Elena's heart was racing, fear and relief battling in her chest.
He walked to her slowly. Hands that had been deadly a second ago were now gentle as he untied her wrists.
"You're safe," he murmured.
She shook, too overwhelmed to speak.
Dante lifted her chin with one finger. His gray eyes held hers, intense, possessive, unyielding.
"You're mine," he said softly. "Do you understand?"
"Yes," she breathed.
"Good."
Then he pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. This time, she didn't pull away.
Not from the heat.
Not from the danger.
Not from him.
The docks were quiet again.
The fight was over.
But Elena knew one thing: she would never feel safe without him.
And Dante… he would never let anyone—or anything—harm her again.