Aria's POV
"You're not going." I stood between Dante and the door, my heart racing. "Isabella wants you dead. This is obviously a trap."
Dante looked at me like I'd grown a second head. "Move, Aria."
"No." I set my feet, even though my legs were shaking. "You saved me because you said harmless people shouldn't die for other people's sins. Well, you're not dying for mine either. Let me go to Isabella. Let me end this."
"That's not happening."
"Why not?" My voice cracked. "Elena is my friend. This is my fault. I should be the one—"
Dante grabbed my shoulders, causing me to look at him. "Listen to me very carefully. Isabella doesn't want to trade. She wants to kill you, Elena, and me. In that order. If you walk into that building, you'll be dead before you finish saying hello."
"Then what's your plan? Go in shooting and hope nobody dies?"
"Something like that." He released me and grabbed weapons from a case Marco had brought—guns I didn't know the names of, knives that looked like they could cut through bone. "Stay here. Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone except me or Marco."
"Dante, please—"
"This isn't a discussion." His voice went cold, the devil returning. "You made a deal with me. You help kill your father, and I keep you safe. I can't do that if you're dead. So stay. Here."
He walked past me, but I caught his arm.
"Come back alive," I whispered. "Both of you. Please."
Something flashed in his ice-blue eyes. For just a second, the mask cracked, and I saw the man underneath—scared, driven, carrying the weight of everyone he'd failed to save.
"I'll try." He pulled away gently. "But if I don't come back, Marco has orders. He'll get you somewhere safe, give you new identity papers, enough money to start over. Don't look back, Aria. Just run and never stop."
"I don't want your money. I want you to survive this."
Dante stared at me for a long moment. Then he did something that shocked us both—he touched my face, his hand rough but gentle against my cheek.
"You're nothing like I expected," he said quietly. "Nothing like them."
Then he was gone, the door locking behind him.
I couldn't just stand there.
Elena was in trouble because of me. Dante and his men were walking into a trap because of me. And I was supposed to hide in a locked room like a powerless child while people died?
No.
I'd spent my whole life being useless. Being unseen. Letting other people make choices for me while I just lived.
Not anymore.
I looked around the room Dante had locked me in. It was nicer than my apartment—real furniture, thick rugs, windows that actually opened (though they had bars). But nice or not, it was still a cage.
And I was done being caged.
I went to the window and looked out. We were on the second floor of what looked like a house by a lake. Guards patrolled below, but they were watching the edge, not looking up.
The bars on the window were bolted into the frame. Strong. But the frame itself was old wood, possibly original to the house.
I grabbed the lamp from the bedside table and smashed it against the floor. The base broke apart, leaving me with a heavy metal stick.
Then I jammed the rod between the window frame and the bars and pushed with everything I had.
Nothing.
I pushed harder, throwing my whole weight against it. My arms screamed. My hands burned. But the frame started to crack.
"Come on," I whispered. "Come on, come on—"
The frame broke. The bars came loose on one side, leaving just enough room to squeeze through.
I looked down at the ground two stories below and felt my stomach drop. But Elena's face flashed in my mind—her laugh, her loyalty, the way she'd dragged me to that gala because she wanted me to have one night of pleasure.
I couldn't let her die.
I climbed onto the ledge, gripped the bars that were still attached, and lowered myself down as far as I could. Then I dropped.
The landing knocked the air from my lungs. Pain shot through my ankle. But I was out.
I limped toward the tree line, staying low, hoping the guards wouldn't notice. My phone was gone—they'd taken it when they'd grabbed me. But I knew where Pier 47 was. Everyone in Chicago knew the old industrial waterfront.
I just had to get there before midnight.
Before Isabella killed everyone I cared about.
I made it to the main road and flagged down a cab, my hands still shaking.
"Pier 47," I told the driver. "And run. Please."
He looked at my torn clothes, my bleeding hands, my desperate face. "Lady, you sure you want to go there? That area's dangerous at night—"
"I know. Just drive."
As we sped toward the waterfront, I tried to make a plan. I had no tools, no training, no idea what I was doing. But I had something Isabella didn't expect.
I had nothing left to lose.
The cab dropped me three blocks from Pier 47. I paid with crumpled bills from my pocket—money I'd earned teaching violin to kids who could barely afford classes.
The building loomed ahead, dark and massive against the night sky. I saw Dante's cars hidden in the dark. Saw his men moving into place.
They were preparing for war.
And I was walking straight into the middle of it.
I crept closer, staying in the shadows. Through a broken window, I saw Elena tied to a chair, her face bruised and frightened. Isabella stood behind her, checking her watch, that cruel smile on her beautiful face.
Six other men stood guard. All armed. All ready to kill.
This was crazy. I should turn back. Let Dante handle it.
But then Isabella pulled out her phone and laughed at something on the screen.
"Poor little Aria," she said loud enough for Elena to hear. "Did she really think Dante Salvatore would save her? He's probably selling her to the best bidder right now. That's what guys like him do with trash."
Elena's head snapped up. "You're wrong. Aria isn't trash. She's worth ten of you."
Isabella slapped her. Hard.
Something inside me snapped.
I didn't think. I just moved.
I grabbed a piece of metal pipe from the ground and threw it through the warehouse's side window. The crash echoed like thunder.
Isabella's guards spun toward the sound, guns raised.
"Contact!" one of them yelled.
And that's when Dante's team struck from the other side.
Gunfire started. Smoke grenades exploded. Men shouted directions. The building became chaos.
I ran toward Elena through the chaos, keeping low. A bullet whizzed past my head. Another broken concrete inches from my feet.
"Aria!" Elena screamed when she saw me. "What are you doing here?"
"Saving you." I fumbled with the ropes binding her hands. "Or dying trying. Honestly not sure which."
"You idiot! You beautiful, stupid idiot—"
Something cold pressed against the back of my head.
A gun.
"Hello, sister." Isabella's voice was poison-sweet in my ear. "I was hoping you'd show up."
The gunshots stopped. Dante's men froze, guns trained on us but unable to shoot without hitting me.
And Dante himself stood in the warehouse door, his face a mask of rage and something that looked horribly like fear.
"Let them go, Isabella," he said softly. "This is between us."
"No, Dante. This is between family." Isabella grabbed my hair, pulling my head back. "You took something that belonged to my father. Now I'm taking it back. Permanently."
I heard the gun cock.
Felt Isabella's finger tighten on the trigger.
And thought, foolishly, that at least I'd tried. At least I hadn't died hiding.
"Wait!" Elena shouted. "I know where Lorenzo keeps his records! The ones about the Salvatore murder! Kill her and you'll never find them!"
Everything stopped.
Isabella's grip weakened slightly. "You're lying."
"I'm not. Aria told me everything. She found paperwork in her mother's things—evidence that could destroy your father." Elena's voice was calm despite her fear. "Kill her, and that proof goes public. Automatically. She set it up with a lawyer before she was taken."
It was a complete lie. But it was amazing.
Isabella paused, the gun still pressed to my skull.
And in that moment of doubt, Dante moved.
He was across the building in seconds, his knife flashing. Isabella screamed, stumbling backward. The gun went off— But the bullet hit the ceiling.
Dante had me, pulling me behind him, sheltering me with his body.
"Run!" he shouted to Marco. "Get them out!"
But before anyone could move, Isabella laughed.
A terrible, unhinged sound.
"You think this is over?" She clutched her bleeding arm, her beautiful face twisted with rage. "You think you've won?"
She pulled something from her pocket. A phone.
"One button," she whispered. "And the bomb under this building goes off. We all die together. Isn't that poetic?"
Her thumb hovered over the screen.
And I realized with terrible clarity that my half-sister would rather kill everyone—including herself—than lose.