Chained to hate

The shadows in the neon

The bass from the underground club pulsed through the cracked concrete like a second heartbeat. Zara slipped through the side door of Eclipse, the kind of place where money talked louder than morals and blood washed off the floors before dawn. Lagos never slept, but here, in the belly of Victoria Island's hidden veins, it didn't pretend to be civilized.

She adjusted the black leather jacket over her cropped top, the zipper low enough to distract, high enough to hide the knife strapped against her ribs. Six years since she'd last worn anything that didn't scream "survivor." Six years since the night the man they called The Reaper turned her father's compound into a graveyard. She'd been nineteen then, hiding in the rafters while gunfire lit up the night like fireworks gone wrong. She'd watched the silhouette tall, broad, methodical put a single bullet through her father's temple. Clean. Professional. No hesitation.

Zara had memorized every detail the way his coat flared in the wind from the broken window, the glint of silver rings on his trigger finger, the low timbre of his voice when he said, "It's done." Dante Moretti. The Reaper. Now climbing the ranks of the syndicate that had ordered the hit. The same syndicate she was about to infiltrate.

She moved through the crowd like smoke. Bodies pressed close sweat, expensive cologne, the metallic tang of fear under the glamour. Girls in sequins danced on elevated platforms, men in tailored suits watched from velvet booths like predators sizing up prey. Zara kept her eyes low, scanning for him.

There.

Across the room, elevated on a private dais, Dante lounged like he owned the shadows themselves. Black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms corded with muscle and ink. His hair was darker than she remembered, swept back, a few strands falling over his forehead. He looked bored. Dangerous. Untouchable.

Her pulse kicked up, not from fear fear had burned out years ago but from something sharper. Hate, pure and molten, coiled in her gut. She could almost taste the revenge on her tongue.

She edged closer, weaving past a group of laughing enforcers. One of them glanced her way, eyes lingering on her curves. She flashed a smile that promised nothing and everything, then slipped past. The knife felt heavier against her skin.

The plan was simple: get close enough to slip the blade between his ribs before anyone noticed. One thrust. Quick. Final. She'd practiced it in mirrors until her reflection looked like a stranger cold eyes, steady hands. No hesitation.

But as she neared the dais steps, the air shifted. Guards flanked the entrance two on each side, earpieces glinting, hands resting near concealed holsters. Dante's gaze lifted slowly, like he'd felt her approach before she even moved.

Their eyes locked.

Time stuttered.

He didn't smile. He didn't frown. He simply looked at her, dark eyes narrowing as recognition flickered then sharpened into something predatory. He knew. Somehow, in that single heartbeat, he knew exactly who she was.

Zara's fingers twitched toward the knife. Too soon. Too exposed.

He tilted his head, a small gesture to one of the guards. The man stepped forward, blocking her path.

"Miss," the guard said, voice flat. "Private area. Invitation only."

Zara forced a sultry laugh, leaning in close enough for him to catch the scent of her perfume jasmine and smoke, chosen to disarm. "I'm here for the boss. Tell him Zara sends her regards."

The guard's expression didn't change, but he spoke into his earpiece. A beat. Then he stepped aside.

Dante rose from his seat in one fluid motion, descending the steps like a panther stalking dinner. The crowd parted without him asking. Up close, he was taller than she'd expected six-three at least, broad shoulders filling out the black shirt. Scars peeked from his collar: thin white lines that spoke of knives and close calls.

He stopped inches from her. Close enough she could smell him sandalwood, gun oil, and something darker, like storm clouds before rain.

"Zara." His voice was low, velvet over steel. The same voice she'd heard that night. "You've grown up."

Her heart slammed against her ribs. "And you've gotten sloppy. Letting the daughter of the man you murdered walk right up to you."

A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. "I let you get this far because I wanted to see if you'd actually try it."

She felt the guards close in behind her, subtle but unmistakable. No escape.

"You killed my father," she said, voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "On orders or not, your hands are the ones stained."

Dante's eyes flicked to her lips, then back up. "And yet here you are. Not running. Not screaming. Planning to finish what your father started?"

She stepped closer stupid, reckless until the heat of him pressed against her space. "I'm here to collect a debt."

He studied her for a long moment, something unreadable flashing in those dark eyes. Then he reached out, slow enough she could have dodged, and caught her wrist. His grip was iron, thumb pressing over her pulse point. She felt it race under his touch.

"Careful, little viper," he murmured. "Debts go both ways."

Before she could twist free, he yanked her forward gentle but unyielding until her body brushed his. The crowd blurred; the music faded. All she could hear was her own breathing and the low rumble in his chest.

"You think you can walk in here and end me?" he said against her ear. "You forget I know exactly what you lost that night. And I know what you're willing to do to get it back."

Zara's free hand went for the knife. She flicked it open in a heartbeat, pressing the tip just under his jaw. The blade kissed skin.

His eyes darkened not with fear. With interest.

"Do it," he challenged softly. "See if you can."

Her hand shook. Not from doubt. From the sudden, unwanted heat pooling low in her belly at the feel of him so close, the way his gaze stripped her bare. Hate shouldn't feel like this—like fire licking up her spine.

She pressed harder. A bead of blood welled.

Dante didn't flinch. Instead, he leaned in, lips brushing her temple. "You hesitate because part of you knows the truth. Your father wasn't innocent. And neither am I."

Zara's breath caught. Lies. It had to be lies.

But before she could respond, his other hand snapped up lightning fast twisting her wrist until the knife clattered to the floor. In the next second, cold metal encircled her free wrist. A chain thin, silver, unbreakable snapped shut.

She jerked back, but he held firm, yanking her against him.

"What the hell"

"Consider this collateral," Dante said, voice calm as he fastened the other end to a discreet loop on his belt. The chain was short barely two feet. She was tethered. To him.

The guards closed ranks. No one in the club seemed to notice or if they did, they knew better than to interfere.

"You're not leaving until I decide what to do with you," he said. "And trust me, little viper... you're going to wish you'd run when you had the chance."

Zara stared up at him, rage and something darker twisting inside her. The chain bit into her skin like a promise.

She hated him.

She hated how her body reacted to the proximity.

And she hated most of all that, for the first time in six years, she felt alive.

Dante tugged the chain lightly, forcing her to follow as he turned toward the private exit.

"Come," he said. "We have a marriage to arrange."

Her blood ran cold.

This wasn't revenge.

This was a trap.

And she'd just walked right into it.