Dante POV
The gun pointed at my chest didn't scare me.
I'd had guns pointed at me since I was sixteen years old. Been shot twice. Stabbed four times. Had a car bomb nearly kill me three years ago.
What scared me was the trembling hand I held behind my back—Shayla's hand, small and cold and shaking like a leaf in a storm.
"Put the gun away, Tony," I said calmly to the man holding it. "Before you do something stupid that gets you killed."
Tony worked for Giovanni Russo. I recognized him from surveillance photos. Low-level muscle, not very smart, definitely not getting paid enough to die today.
Marcus stood behind Tony, smirking like he'd already won. "You can't just steal my fighter, Salvatore. I have contracts. Lawyers. Rights."
"You have nothing," I said. "I bought out every contract you had with Shayla Morrison. Paid triple what she's worth just to make sure it was legal and binding. Check your bank account—the money should be there by now."
Marcus's smirk faltered. He pulled out his phone, tapped frantically, and his face went white.
Good. He'd see the payment. He'd also see the bill I'd attached—every penny he'd stolen from Shayla over eight years, itemized and documented. By tomorrow morning, the FBI would have the same documents.
"This isn't over," Marcus snarled.
"Yes, it is." I kept my voice quiet, which was always more dangerous than yelling. "You're done stealing from her. Done manipulating her. Done existing in her life. If I see you within one hundred feet of Shayla again, they'll never find your body."
I meant every word. Marcus must have seen it in my eyes because he took a step back.
But Tony still held the gun. And behind him, two more of Russo's men blocked the doorway.
"Boss Russo wants the girl," Tony said. "Says she's payment for old debts."
My blood went ice-cold. Giovanni Russo wanting Shayla meant he knew. Knew I'd been protecting her. Knew she mattered to me.
Which meant she was now a target.
Behind me, Shayla made a small, scared sound. My protective instincts roared to life—the same instincts that had kept my family safe for years, that had turned me into the most feared man in New York.
No one threatened what was mine.
"Shayla," I said quietly, not taking my eyes off Tony's gun. "When I move, you run. Out the back door, turn left, black car waiting. Driver's name is Rico. Tell him Code Silver."
"I'm not leaving you," she whispered, and I heard the fear but also the strength. The champion underneath the panic.
"You will," I said firmly, using the voice that expected obedience. "Because Daddy is telling you to, and good girls listen to Daddy."
I felt her shock at the word. Then something shifted in her energy—she wasn't just scared anymore. She was Little. Small. Ready to trust me to handle the grown-up problems.
"Okay, Daddy," she whispered.
Those two words nearly broke my heart.
"How touching," Tony sneered. "Russo was right. You really do have a thing for the crazy baby wrestler."
Mistake. Huge mistake.
Never insult someone a Salvatore protects.
I moved faster than Tony expected—eight years of training and survival instincts made me dangerous. I grabbed his wrist, twisted the gun away, and had him on the ground in three seconds.
"Run, Shayla! NOW!"
She ran.
Smart girl. Brave girl. My perfect little girl, doing exactly what Daddy told her even though she was terrified.
The other two men tried to grab her. I couldn't let that happen. I threw Tony's gun across the room—I didn't need weapons for this—and went after them with my fists.
The first man went down with a broken nose. The second was smarter, pulled his own gun.
I heard the shot.
Felt the burn across my shoulder—grazed, not fatal, barely even serious.
But Shayla screamed.
She'd stopped running. Was standing in the doorway, watching with huge terrified eyes.
"I said RUN!" I roared.
"You're bleeding!" she cried, and her voice was so small, so Little, so absolutely devastated that Daddy was hurt.
The second man aimed his gun at her.
Time stopped.
Every protective instinct I had screamed. I dove, knocked the gun away as it fired. The bullet hit the wall where Shayla's head had been one second earlier.
My vision went red with rage.
I didn't remember the next minute clearly. Just violence. Just protecting. Just making sure the men who'd tried to hurt my little girl never got the chance again.
When my head cleared, all three of Russo's men were on the ground, unconscious or too injured to move. Marcus had disappeared—smart choice.
And Shayla was still standing in the doorway, staring at me with wide eyes.
"Daddy's bleeding," she whispered.
I looked at my shoulder. The graze was bleeding more than I'd thought, soaking through my white shirt.
"It's just a scratch, baby girl," I said gently, trying to calm my breathing, trying to shift from dangerous to safe for her. "Daddy's okay."
She walked toward me slowly. Not running away from the violence she'd just seen. Walking toward me.
"You protected me," she said softly.
"Always," I promised. "I'll always protect you."
She reached up, touched my bloody shoulder with gentle fingers. Her eyes filled with tears. "You got hurt because of me."
"No." I caught her hand, held it against my chest so she could feel my heartbeat. Strong. Steady. Alive. "I got hurt protecting you. That's different. That's what Daddies do."
Sirens wailed in the distance. Someone had called the police.
"We need to leave," I said. "Right now. Can you walk?"
She nodded.
I grabbed her hand and led her through the back corridors of the arena. My shoulder burned but I ignored it. Pain was nothing compared to keeping Shayla safe.
Rico waited with the car, eyes widening when he saw the blood.
"Hospital?" he asked.
"No. Home. Get the private doctor." I helped Shayla into the back seat, then slid in beside her.
The moment the door closed, she collapsed against me, sobbing.
"Shh, baby girl. You're safe now. Daddy's got you."
"They were going to take me," she cried into my chest. "That man said someone named Russo wants me. Why? Why does he want me?"
Because I'd made her important by protecting her. Because she'd saved Sofia and now Russo knew hurting her would hurt me.
But I couldn't tell her that. Not yet. Not when she was so small and scared.
"Because bad people want to hurt Daddy by taking his little girl away," I said simply. "But I won't let them. No one takes you from me. Ever."
She clung tighter. "Promise?"
"I promise."
Rico drove fast through the city streets. I held Shayla, letting her cry, letting her be Little and scared and overwhelmed. In the rearview mirror, I saw Rico's eyes—worried, alert, scanning for threats.
My phone buzzed. Text from Lorenzo: Three more of Russo's men spotted outside the arena. They're hunting for her.
Then another text: Marcus Holloway just got on a plane to Chicago. Tracking him.
And another: Boss, we have a problem. Vanessa Morrison just posted Shayla's home address on social media. Says "come get the freak." Hundreds of people heading there now.
My jaw clenched. Shayla's own sister had just put a target on her back.
"Change of plans," I told Rico. "Take us to the safe house in Brooklyn. The one nobody knows about."
"Yes, sir."
Shayla had stopped crying but stayed pressed against me, her breathing evening out. She was slipping deeper into Little space—the violence and fear had been too much.
"Daddy?" she whispered. "Am I in trouble?"
"No, baby. You did exactly right. Ran when Daddy said run. You were so good."
"But people are mad at me. That man with the gun was mad. And Marcus was mad. And—" Her voice broke. "Everyone's always mad at me."
My heart cracked. This brave, strong woman who'd saved my niece, who fought in rings in front of thousands—she truly believed everyone hated her.
"I'm not mad at you," I said softly. "I could never be mad at you. You're my good girl."
She looked up at me with tear-filled eyes. "Really?"
"Really."
She tucked her head under my chin, relaxing finally.
I should have felt relieved. We'd escaped. She was safe. My shoulder would heal.
But my phone buzzed again.
Text from an unknown number: Cute girl you have there, Salvatore. Russo sends his regards. He'll be in touch about arrangements for her return. Sweet dreams.
Attached was a photo—Shayla and me in the car. Taken thirty seconds ago.
They were following us.
Right now.
And they had a clear shot.
"RICO, MOVE!" I shouted, throwing myself over Shayla.
The back window exploded in a spray of glass.