Chapter 4: The Moscow Reckoning
306 Words
The explosion blew out every window in the safehouse.
Dante woke to the taste of copper and concrete dust, Selena's weight sprawled across his chest. Her wedding gown was shredded, revealing the Kevlar lining beneath. Of course the b***h wore body armor to her own assassination.
"Still alive, wife?" he croaked.
Her fist connected with his jaw. "Unfortunately."
Moscow, three years earlier
The ballet theater smelled of lemon polish and blood.
Twenty-three-year-old Dante moved through the backstage shadows, his mark laughing with corps de ballet girls just beyond the velvet curtain. The contract said poison. The Ghost preferred blades.
Then he saw her, a willowy soloist with familiar brown eyes, spinning dangerously close to his target. When their gazes locked across the stage, Dante hesitated.
Big mistake.
Present day
Selena pressed Dante's own knife against his carotid. "You were sent to kill my biological father that night."
The realization hit like a bullet: "And you took the shot first."
The bomb had unearthed a floor safe beneath the bedroom. Inside was a Soviet-era birth certificate (Selena Ivanova, b. 1995) and a faded photo of Don Cabrera accepting a bundled infant from a ballerina's arms
Dante's phone buzzed. The message simply read:
"Ask her about the fire."
Selena's hands shook for the first time all night.
Flashback
Seven-year-old Selena waking to smoke and screaming.
The way the flames licked up the ballet barres.
The stranger in the Cabrera crest carrying her from the inferno.
The lie she'd been fed ever since: "You're my daughter by blood."
Present day
Dante watched the truth crack her perfect armor. "All this time...I was just stolen inventory."
When the second explosion rocked the building, he didn't hesitate, Dante hauled her into the escape tunnel, their temporary truce forgotten.
Somewhere above them, a voice echoed through the smoke:
"Malyshka...you've been naughty."
- Writer
