CRIMSON IVY

Chapter 12: The Iron Rule

​The Moretti estate was no longer a gilded cage; it was a war room. The smell of expensive sandalwood had been replaced by the acrid scent of tobacco and gun oil. For three days, Dante didn't sleep. The hallways echoed with the muffled shouts of men and the constant, rhythmic ringing of secure phones. Sloane was confined to the East Wing for her own safety, but the walls were thin enough for the tension to bleed through the wood.

​On the fourth night, the heavy mahogany doors to her bedroom were kicked open with a violence that made the crystal chandelier shiver. Dante stood in the doorway, looking absolutely wrecked. His white shirt was unbuttoned halfway, his hair was a chaotic mess, and a fresh, jagged cut split his eyebrow, weeping a slow trail of red down his cheek. He didn't say a word as he threw a heavy leather folder onto the silk duvet of her bed.

​"Your father’s codes," he panted, his chest heaving as if he’d just run a marathon. "The Sokolovs tried to torture them out of him before my men raided their warehouse. He wouldn't give them up to them. He told them he’d rather watch the city burn." He paused, his gaze fixed on her with a raw, terrifying intensity. "He only gave them to me because I told him you were safe."

​Sloane sat up, her heart hammering against her ribs. She reached for the folder, her fingers brushing the leather that still felt cold from the night air. "Is he okay? Dante, tell me the truth."

​Dante sank onto the edge of the bed, the weight of his body making the mattress dip. He dropped his head into his hands, a rare moment of total exhaustion. "He’s alive. He’s at a safe house in the city with three of my best men. But he told me something, Sloane. Something that changes the math." He looked up, his dark eyes bloodshot but burning with a weary, hot-blooded passion. "He said the debt wasn't just about money or territory. He said he sold you to me because he knew I was the only man in this world with enough blood on my hands to keep you safe from what’s coming next."

​Sloane felt a chill settle in her marrow. She reached out, her fingers hesitating before resting on his bruised, scarred knuckles. "What’s coming, Dante? What could be worse than this?"

​"A purge," he whispered, his hand flipping over to grip hers with a strength that was almost painful. "The other families are tired of the Moretti name. They think that because I took a wife, I’ve traded my gun for a wedding ring. They think you’re my soft spot, Sloane. And in this world, a soft spot is just a place to put a knife.