Valentina's POV | 6:00 p.m.
Her fingers trembled as she twisted the lock open. Hoodie up. Bag zipped. Fake passport strapped flat against her chest.
This was it. The window. Five minutes—maybe less—before the next guard circled back.
She slipped out like vapor. Silent. Fast.
The elevator dinged.
Too soon.
"Miss De Luca?" the new guard called out, confused.
She didn't answer.
She ran.
"She's fleeing. Repeat—Code Red. Contact Mr. Romano. Now!"
Boots on marble. Heart in her throat. Every step counted now.
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Dante's POV | 6:01 p.m.
The sky beyond his windows looked like liquid gold bleeding across Milan, eerily calm.
Dante sat at the edge of his leather couch, sleeves rolled, shirt half-open, like he'd ripped it loose from the heat building beneath his skin.
His hair was wild. His forearms tight. Jaw locked.
On the massive screen before him: Valentina, asleep. Fragile. Peaceful.
His voice was low. Tender. Possessive.
"You sleep so sweetly when you're near me, mia cara…"
Then—
BOOM.
The door flew inward.
Luca, breathless. "Code Red."
Dante blinked, slowly turning. A storm behind his eyes.
"She slipped the guard," Luca said, voice rushing. "She's in a cab—headed for the airport."
Beat. Then—
"Also… someone sent her the video. Of Marco. Just her."
Silence.
Glass shattered against marble. Dante's tumbler exploded across the wall.
He stood. Controlled fury. Pure predator.
"She saw what I did to him…"
His voice was ragged.
"She saw it—and still left me?"
He grabbed his coat, didn't bother with the buttons.
"Where's the driver?"
"Downstairs, but—"
"Muoviti."(Move.)
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Valentina's POV | 6:02 p.m.
The cab peeled into traffic.
SUVs swarmed behind them.
"They're following us!" she shouted.
"I noticed!" the driver growled. "Hang on!"
They swerved into a packed boulevard. Horns blared. A moped tipped over behind them. Metal screeched.
Her phone buzzed.
Isabella:At the airport. Waiting. Toss your SIM.
Valentina didn't hesitate. Yanked the card. Threw it into the street.
One SUV rammed them—hard.
The cab fishtailed.
"Dammit!" the driver yelled. "We're taking the tunnel!"
He jerked the wheel. They shot into a restricted access road—narrow and brutal.
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Dante's POV | 6:04 p.m.
The Maserati screamed to life.
It was less a car now—more a beast. An extension of his rage.
He tore through the city like vengeance itself.
200 km/h.
Red lights—ignored.Cameras—flashed.Pedestrians—dove out of the way.
"Mia principessa…" he muttered, teeth clenched. "You ran while I was still watching you…"
Sweat slid down his brow. His hands were fists on the wheel.
"You saw what I did… for you. You saw how far I'd go."
He slammed his fist into the steering wheel. The horn shrieked.
"And you still chose to run?"
A black SUV ahead signaled with lights. The driver pointed left—service tunnel.
Dante followed.
He roared into the dark tunnel, sparks flying as his side mirror scraped the concrete. Behind him—another of his SUVs clipped a wall and spun out.
Ahead: Valentina's cab.
A yellow blur.
"You're still mine," he whispered. "Mia. Sempre mia."(Mine. Always mine.)
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Valentina's POV | 6:06 p.m.
The tunnel narrowed. Barely space to breathe, let alone drive.
The cab swerved to avoid rubble. Pipes overhead rattled with every bump.
Behind them—SUVs gaining. Fast.
"We're not gonna outrun them like this!" she shouted.
"I know!" the cabbie snapped. "We don't have to outrun all—just get far enough!"
Another SUV pulled up on the side—tried to pin them. Valentina ducked as a side mirror exploded.
"Santo Dio!" the cabbie cursed, yanking the wheel. They clipped a column and kept going.
Then—a gap. Light ahead.
They shot out of the tunnel like a missile, straight into a side road that opened toward the airport perimeter.
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Dante's POV | 6:08 p.m.
The Maserati burst from the tunnel, tires screeching as it leapt into open lanes.
He saw the yellow cab.
Just ahead.
"Ci sei quasi... fermati."(You're almost there… stop.)
But she didn't stop.
She turned into the airport drop-off, vanishing into the chaos.
Dante screamed past a bus, barely missing a streetlamp.
"You think you'll disappear, mia principessa? Into some fake life? With some fake man?"
He crushed the accelerator.
"I built your world. There is no world without me in it."
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Valentina's POV | 6:09 p.m. Airport
Valentina jumped from the cab mid-roll.
No time to tip. No time to think.
Behind her, black SUVs screeched to a halt. Men in black leapt out, barking into radios.
She hit the kiosk, passport shaking in her hands.
"Boarding pass printed. Alessia Vega. Gate 31. Final call."
She bolted to security.
Isabella was already there. "You made it."
"Barely."
They tossed jackets. Shoes. Phones smashed beneath boot heels.
Dante's men argued with security. Waving IDs. Shouting.
"Fatela passare!"(Let us through!)
Too late.
The girls cleared the gate.
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Dante's POV |6:10 p.m.
Dante's Maserati howled as it skidded across the terminal driveway.
He leapt from the door before it stopped. Shoved a guard aside. Stormed inside.
"GATE 31!" someone yelled.
He ran.
The crowd parted around him. Shirt soaked. Right hand bleeding.
And then—through the glass—he saw her.
Valentina.
Boarding. Turning. Looking back.
Eyes met. Locked.
She saw him.
She chose.
And stepped through.
The door hissed shut behind her.
Dante stood, shaking, in the center of the terminal. Blood dripped onto the floor from his fist.
"She looked at me…" he whispered, stunned.
Then louder: "She looked at me—and she still walked away."
Luca caught up, breathless. "There's a problem."
Dante didn't move. His eyes fixed on the now-empty glass doors.
Luca said gently. "She's going to Australia. Marrying Leo Rinaldi. Isabella's cousin. Fake marriage. New papers."
Nothing.
Then—
"Sta per sposarsi?"(She's getting married?)
His voice cracked.
Then shattered: "A lui?! A un altro uomo?!"(To him?! To another man?!)
He slammed his fist into a marble column. The impact echoed. Cracks bloomed like spiderwebs.
"She thinks she can rewrite the story without me."
He turned, eyes feral. "Fuel the jet."
Luca nodded, already calling.
"And Luca?"
"Yes?"
"Every contact in Australia. Wake them. Pay them. Threaten them. Trovala."(Find her.)
He stormed out.
"She thinks this was escape."
His voice was a whisper, but it carried weight like a bullet.
"Ma questo… è solo l'inizio."(But this… is just the beginning.)