The world came back into focus. Dante's hand gripped my arm, pulling me from the cold, damp cellar into the dimly lit, incense-scented sacristy. I stumbled over the old threshold and collapsed against his solid chest. He wrapped his other arm around my waist, holding me tightly. For a brief moment, his eyes closed, and his body went rigid in silent prayer.
"Are you hurt?" he asked in a low, guttural voice against my hair. His hands searched my arms and side, both frantic and possessive.
"No, I'm fine," I gasped, gripping his shirt. "But Leo is. He's hit. And Rook."
His focus on me shattered. He looked over my shoulder, and his expression changed from raw fear to the cold determination of a commander.
"Nyx!" he shouted. "Get them through! Now!"
The Syndicate team rushed into the cellar, realizing their prey was trying to escape. "No witnesses!" one of them yelled.
"Clear the room," Dante ordered, his calm voice chilling.
That's when I noticed we weren't alone. From the shadows of the sacristy, four men in tactical gear emerged. They weren't the mismatched team Nyx had pulled together; they were a Tier-1 unit—Dante's personal guard, the Praetorians he had left at the penthouse. They positioned themselves in a lethal line at the doorway.
"Light them up," Dante instructed.
What followed was not a gunfight. It was an execution. The small space of the cellar exploded with the deafening roar of rapid gunfire. Dante's team, shielded by the thick stone archway, unleashed a barrage of bullets. The Syndicate soldiers, caught in the open, were wiped out in seconds.
It was brutal, effective, and terrifying. The man who held me so tenderly had just ordered this slaughter without flinching.
As the echoes of gunfire faded, replaced by ringing in my ears and the clatter of shell casings on the stone floor, Dante's team moved quickly.
"Medics! Leo and Rook, now!" Dante commanded. Two of his men rushed over with trauma kits, applying tourniquets and pressure bandages efficiently. Leo, gritting his teeth, struggled to stand.
Nyx, weapon lowered, leaned against a pillar, her body shaking from adrenaline. "How?" she panted, looking at Dante. "How did you… the comms were dead. We were buried."
Dante's eyes stayed on me. He reached up and wiped a streak of mud and blood from my cheek with his thumb. "Your earpiece was dead," he said in a low, rough voice. "But your heart never stopped beating."
He tapped the sapphire at my throat, his eyes blazing with possessiveness. "The moment the tracker's signal switched from satellite to the copper lines, I knew you were underground. I had Elias fetch the original city blueprints—the 19th-century utility maps. I saw where the tunnels were. And I saw where they led."
He hadn't been circling the city in a helpless rage. He had been racing, pushing his car to the limits, to reach us before we escaped. He hadn't just come to save us; he had come to set a trap. The iron bar I thought was a prison was his way of keeping us in the "safe" cellar until he could clear the path.
"Sir," one of the medics called. "Leo's stable. The bullet went clean through. Rook has a shattered tibia, but he'll walk again. We need to move them."
"Good," Dante replied. He turned to Marchand, who leaned against a wall with his hand on his chest, shock written on his face. "Monsieur Marchand. My men will take you to a secure location. You will be under my protection until this is over."
Finally, his gaze landed on the thick, leather-bound book I still clutched, as if my life depended on it. The ledger. The reason for this nightmare. He reached for it.
I handed it to him. The weight of it, the dangerous secrets it contained, passed between us. He held the key to the Syndicate, and I had brought it to him.
The crisis was over. The immediate threat was gone. In the sudden silence of the sacred room, the adrenaline that had kept me going for hours faded, leaving me shaky.
I swayed on my feet, the darkness of the tunnels threatening to pull me back in.
Before I could fall, Dante was there. He handed the ledger to one of his men and lifted me into his arms as if I weighed nothing. His embrace felt like a fortress. I buried my face in his neck, breathing in his scent—soap, sandalwood, and the sharp metallic tang of gunpowder. I was safe. I was finally safe.
He stepped out of the sacristy and into the main part of the cathedral, a dark god carrying his prize, his men surrounding us. He didn't glance at the chaos he had created in this holy place. He only looked at me.
"This," he whispered, his voice a rough vow meant only for me. "Never again."