Chapter 1: The Firestorm
1007 Words
Chapter 1: The Firestorm
The night was too quiet for a wedding.
Dante Vale stood near the edge of the rooftop terrace, a cigarette burning between his fingers, his sharp eyes scanning the glittering skyline of Manhattan. Below, music floated out from the ballroom—strings, soft jazz, the clinking of champagne glasses. Laughter. Applause.
He didn’t laugh.
Weddings were for fools. Especially mafia weddings.
He tossed the cigarette over the edge and adjusted his black tie, the custom-fit suit stretching slightly over his broad shoulders. Everyone downstairs was celebrating the union of two families—Raze and Bellini. Two bloodlines so soaked in corruption that even the devil would hesitate to invite them to hell.
And here he was. A Vale. Uninvited, untrusted, and unarmed. But not unwatched.
He knew Victor Raze was watching. That bastard never missed a chance to smile through his teeth.
Dante descended the stairs slowly, entering the dim hallway outside the main ballroom. He paused. A laugh—high and soft—echoed from the other side of the door. He recognized that voice, though he’d only ever heard it in recordings.
Isabelle Raze.
The ghost. The hidden sister. The only woman Victor protected with more fury than his empire.
And tonight, she was here.
Dante pushed open the door and entered the chaos of glitter, gowns, and danger.
The ballroom was extravagant—chandeliers dripping with crystals, velvet runners, silk-draped tables. The elite of the underworld mingled like royalty, knives hidden beneath tuxedos, secrets behind smiles. And in the center of it all, Isabelle.
She wore crimson.
The dress hugged her curves like it was stitched with sin. Her hair was long and dark, loose waves cascading over one bare shoulder. She stood by the bar, half-turned, laughing softly with a man Dante didn’t recognize. But her eyes—dark, sharp—glanced toward him.
And held.
For one second.
Then all hell exploded.
The first shot shattered the chandelier above the cake.
Screams tore through the room. Glass rained down. People ducked, fell, ran. Dante dove sideways as another bullet whizzed past his head. Blood sprayed across the floor as a guard collapsed behind him.
It wasn’t a warning. It was an execution.
Victor’s enemies had come.
From the balconies, masked gunmen opened fire. Chaos erupted. Tables overturned. Smoke grenades hissed. Guests clawed at each other to escape.
Dante didn’t run.
He moved.
Gun in hand—taken off a dead guard—he fired twice, dropping one shooter on the balcony. He rolled behind a marble pillar, scanning the room.
“Get her out!” someone shouted.
His eyes snapped to the bar.
Isabelle was frozen, back pressed to the counter, one hand raised to protect her face from the falling glass. The man beside her—her escort—was dead. Bullet through the throat. She didn’t scream.
She didn’t even move.
Dante moved before he could stop himself.
Bullets clipped his shoulder as he charged across the floor. He grabbed Isabelle’s wrist, yanked her behind him.
“Run!”
She hesitated. “Who the hell are—”
“MOVE!”
He dragged her through the ballroom, using the overturned tables and screaming bodies as cover. Two shooters dropped from the balcony, chasing them through the side doors. Dante kicked the first open and pulled Isabelle into the back hallway.
“Stay low.”
She stumbled behind him, clutching the slit of her gown as it tangled around her legs. “What’s happening?!”
He didn’t answer.
They reached the service corridor just as another guard appeared—gun raised. Dante fired first. One shot to the head. The man dropped.
Isabelle flinched. “Jesus Christ…”
“You wanted to know who I am?” Dante muttered. “Now you know.”
“You killed him!”
“He was going to kill you.”
“I could’ve—”
“You’re welcome.”
They reached the emergency stairwell. The echo of gunfire behind them. Dante pushed her up the steps. “Keep moving.”
She glanced back. “Why are you helping me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re a chess piece.”
“Then let me go.”
“Not yet.”
They reached the rooftop. The air was cold and sharp. The city lights flickered through the rising smoke. A private helicopter stood at the far end, still spinning. Victor’s escape plan, no doubt.
But no pilot.
Dante scanned the roof. “Where’s the f*cking pilot?”
Isabelle’s voice was calmer now. “He’s dead. I saw him fall.”
Of course he was.
A bullet pinged off the metal frame beside them. “DOWN!” Dante shouted, shoving her to the ground. Another masked gunman burst from the stairwell behind them.
Dante turned, fired twice. Missed.
The man tackled him.
They crashed to the ground. The gun slid across the rooftop. Dante took a punch to the jaw, blood spitting from his mouth. He reached for the attacker’s belt, grabbed the knife, and drove it up under his ribs.
The man collapsed.
Dante rolled off, gasping.
Isabelle stood up slowly, looking at the blood on her hands. She stepped over the body.
“You saved me,” she whispered.
He looked up at her, chest heaving. “I’m not your hero.”
“No,” she said, softer now. “But you didn’t let me die either.”
Dante stood, wiping blood from his cheek. Their eyes met—trapped in a moment where the world was still on fire behind them, but neither moved.
Then she asked, “Who are you?”
His voice was cold. “Dante Vale.”
Her eyes widened. “The man whose brother Victor killed.”
Dante didn’t blink. “That’s right.”
Her lips parted, like she might say something else.
But more footsteps echoed from below.
Dante grabbed her hand again. “We’re not done.”
---
They slipped down the fire escape, disappearing into the smoke-filled night.
Behind them, the ballroom burned.
- Writer
