VICIOUS DEVOTION

CHAPTER FIVE : The Warning

Three Days After the Gala

Serafina hadn't slept in forty-eight hours.

The council had been relentless. They demanded explanations. They demanded she denounce Dante publicly. They demanded she hand over the list of names he'd given her—the evidence that would destroy half of them.

She had refused. She had outmaneuvered them. She had walked out of the chamber with her head high and her heart pounding.

But the whispers followed her everywhere.

She danced with a criminal.

She's compromised.

She's a traitor to the crown.

Tonight, she had escaped. She'd slipped out of the palace in her plain black hoodie, her knife strapped to her thigh, and walked the streets of the Lower Ward like a ghost. No guards. No entourage. Just her and the shadows.

She needed to breathe.

She needed to think.

She needed to forget the way Dante's hand had felt on her back. The way his voice had dropped when he said her name. The way he'd looked at her like she was the only woman in the world.

Stop it, she told herself viciously. He's a criminal. He's a liar. He manipulated you from the beginning. He—

A noise.

Behind her. Soft. Almost imperceptible.

Her hand went to her knife. Her body coiled, ready to strike.

She turned, scanning the alley.

Empty. Just shadows and a stray cat slinking along a windowsill.

You're paranoid, she chided herself. You're exhausted. You're seeing things.

She turned back—

And the world exploded.

---

The bullet missed her heart by an inch.

It slammed into the brick wall beside her, spraying dust and debris. She dove sideways, rolling across the wet cobblestones, her knife in her hand.

Another shot. Closer this time. She felt the wind of it against her cheek.

She scrambled behind a dumpster, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her heart was pounding. Her hands were shaking.

Who? her mind screamed. Council? Rivals? Or—

A figure emerged from the shadows at the end of the alley. Tall. Hooded. A glint of metal in their hand.

Gun.

Serafina's mind raced. She was trapped. The alley was a dead end. The dumpster was her only cover, and it wouldn't stop a bullet.

This is how I die, she thought. In a filthy alley, alone, with no one—

A blur of motion.

The assassin spun, a choked gasp escaping their lips. The gun clattered to the ground. A figure materialized behind them—tall, dark, devastatingly familiar.

Dante.

He moved like water, like shadow, like death itself. His hand was around the assassin's throat. His voice was ice.

"Who sent you?"

The assassin struggled. Gurgled. Tried to speak.

"Not—not telling—"

Dante smiled. It was not a pleasant expression. "That's fine. I have other ways."

He snapped the assassin's neck with a single, brutal twist.

The body crumpled.

And then Dante turned to face her.

---

He was covered in blood.

Not his. The assassin's. It splattered across his white shirt, his dark suit, his beautiful, cruel face.

He walked toward her, and Serafina realized she was still crouched behind the dumpster, her knife raised, her body shaking.

He knelt in front of her. His hands came up, slow and careful, like she was a wounded animal.

"Are you hurt?" His voice was soft. Concerned. Completely at odds with the violence she'd just witnessed.

She stared at him. "You—you killed him."

"Yes." He said it like it was nothing. Like it was breathing. "He was going to kill you. I couldn't allow that."

"You followed me." Her voice cracked. "You've been following me."

"I protect what's mine." His eyes burned into hers. "And you are mine, Serafina. Whether you accept it yet or not."

She should have run. She should have screamed. She should have driven her knife into his heart and called it self-defense.

Instead, she started to laugh.

Hysterical. Broken. Uncontrollable.

He didn't flinch. He just watched her, patient and steady, like he had all the time in the world.

"I'm losing my mind," she gasped. "I'm a princess, and I'm laughing in an alley over a dead body with a twenty-one-year-old mafia criminal who just saved my life."

Dante's lips twitched. "That's one way to put it."

"Shut up." She shoved his chest. He didn't move. "Shut up, shut up, shut up."

He caught her hands. Held them. His thumb stroked over her knuckles.

"Let it out," he murmured. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

And finally, finally, she broke.

---

She cried.

Not polite tears. Not delicate princess sobs. Ugly, wrenching, desperate cries that tore out of her throat like she'd been holding them in for years.

And Dante held her.

He pulled her into his chest, his arms strong and steady, his hand cradling the back of her head like she was something precious. He didn't speak. He didn't shush her. He just held her while the weight of everything—her father's death, her enemies, her loneliness, her fear—poured out of her.

When the tears finally stopped, she was exhausted. Hollow. Empty.

But she was still in his arms.

"You're a disaster," she mumbled into his chest.

"I know." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "But I'm your disaster."

She pulled back, looking up at him. His face was smeared with blood. His shirt was ruined. His eyes were dark and fierce and terrifyingly gentle.

"You saved my life," she whispered.

"Always." His thumb traced her jaw. "Every time. Forever. Until the day I die."

"You can't promise that."

"I can." He smiled, soft and sad. "I'm a monster, Serafina. I've done terrible things. I've killed. I've stolen. I've manipulated. But I have never—never—lied to you. Not about this. You are the only good thing in my life. The only light in my darkness. And I will burn this world to ash before I let anyone take you from me."

She should have been terrified.

She should have run.

Instead, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

---

The kiss was everything.

Not gentle. Not tentative. It was fierce and desperate and hungry. His hands tangled in her hair. Her fingers gripped his collar. They kissed like they were drowning and the other was air.

He pulled back first, his forehead against hers, his breath ragged.

"Angel," he breathed. "If we don't stop now—"

"Then don't stop." Her voice was barely a whisper. "I don't want to stop."

His eyes blazed. "Serafina, if we do this—if we go down this road—there's no coming back. I will never let you go. Never. I will own your heart, your soul, your everything. And I will destroy anyone who tries to take you from me."

She looked into his eyes and saw the truth. He wasn't exaggerating. He wasn't romanticizing. He was promising her a lifetime of obsession, possession, and utter devotion.

And for the first time in her life, she didn't want to run.

"Okay," she whispered.

He blinked. "Okay?"

"I'm tired of being afraid." She cupped his face in her hands. "I'm tired of being alone. I'm tired of pretending I don't feel something when you look at me. So yes. Okay. I'm yours."

Dante's breath caught. For a moment—just a moment—the mask slipped. She saw the boy underneath. The lonely, broken boy who had been watching her for two years, desperate for a single glance.

He kissed her again, softer this time. Reverent.

"I love you, Serafina," he whispered against her lips. "I've loved you from the moment I saw you. And I will spend the rest of my life proving it."

She smiled. A real smile. The first one in years.

"Then you'd better start now, little mafia boy."

He laughed. "I'll show you little."

And in the dark alley, surrounded by the body of her would-be assassin, Princess Serafina Valerius fell in love with a monster.

And she didn't regret a single moment.