Chapter 3: The Stranger in the Smoke
692 Words
The silence after the gunfire was the loudest thing Elena had ever heard.
Smoke curled through the broken windshield, acrid and stinging. The driver’s seat was empty now. Blood on the steering wheel. The guards in the front weren’t moving.
She stood curled on the floor, heart pounding, Dante’s last words ringing in her ears.
“Don’t move until I come back.”
But he wasn’t back.
And she wasn’t alone.
A soft scrape of boots against the pavement outside the car made her breath hitch. Then—closer—shards of glass crunched. Someone was approaching.
Not Dante.
She could feel it in her bones.
Her eyes darted to the floor. One of the guards’ guns had slid close. Inches from her hand. She crawled forward, blood from a shattered window dripping down her temple, fingers reaching—
A hand slammed the car door open.
She gasped.
A man stood there, tall, dressed in all black with a jagged scar running from his cheek to his jaw. Eyes cold at midnight.
"Get out," he ordered, his voice low and rough.
Elena didn’t move.
He crouched down, grabbing her arm. "I said—"
She twisted, grabbed the gun, and pointed it at his face.
"Touch me again and I’ll shoot."
His lips curled, amused. "Feisty."
"Back off."
He raised both hands like it was a game. "Relax, sweetheart. I’m not here to kill you. If I was, you’d already be dead."
"Then what do you want?"
"To deliver a message."
From behind him, a second figure stepped forward—this one smaller, younger, barely more than a teenager but with a face already hardened by war.
He handed her a sealed envelope.
Elena hesitated.
"Open it," Scarface said.
She tore it open with trembling fingers. Inside was a photo of Rafael. Eyes swollen shut. Blood caked on his shirt. And beneath it, a note in block letters:
“THE GAME HAS BEGUN. NEXT TIME, HE BLEEDS.”
She stared, throat tight.
Scarface leaned in. “Tell your husband—Luciano's back. And he wants his throne.”
Then they vanished into the smoke.
Dante didn’t return until two hours later.
By then, Elena had been pulled from the wreckage by backup guards. She was wrapped in a thick coat, still gripping the note like a lifeline, her dress torn and stained.
When he finally walked onto the estate, fury radiated off him like wildfire. His shirt was bloodstained. His knuckles raw.
“What the hell happened?” he demanded.
Elena stood. “You tell me. You left me!”
“To protect you.”
“Well, it didn’t work.”
She shoved the note into his hand. I watched his jaw clench as he read it.
“Luciano,” he muttered.
“Who is he?”
Dante didn’t answer right away. He poured another drink—his third in the past twenty minutes. Then he looked at her, eyes darker than she’d ever seen.
“He’s the only man I’ve ever wanted dead enough to shoot twice.”
Later that night, Elena couldn’t sleep.
She lay stiff on the edge of Dante’s bed, staring at the ceiling, still wearing the bruises of the attack.
He walked in, shirtless, scars criss-crossing his chest like roadmaps of violence. He didn’t look at her. Just slid under the sheets on his side.
“Do you always attract gunfire, or am I just lucky?” she asked quietly.
He laughed once—dark and sharp. “This is your new life, Elena. Get used to it.”
She rolled over to face him. “Why won’t you tell me who Luciano is?”
His gaze met hers. Something cracked behind those walls.
“Because if I do… you’ll never sleep again.”
Then he turned away.
But she didn’t.
Because outside, in the shadows just beyond the estate walls, someone was watching her window.
And this time… they weren’t leaving a message.
They were planning an execution.
➡ Next: Elena wakes to find a mark left on her pillow—a single black rose. The mafia’s deadliest warning. And Dante knows exactly who left it…
- Writer
