The confession almost spilled under the harsh lights of the mansion’s private clinic wing, where the scent of antiseptic clashed with the lingering smoke from recent fires. The Delacroix remnants had struck back harder than expected a coordinated shootout at a neutral warehouse meeting that Dante had insisted on attending personally to send a final message. Elena had begged him not to go, the phoenix pendant a heavy weight against her chest as she watched him arm up. “After burning their operation for me, you chase more danger?” she had said, voice conversational yet laced with fear. “Last night’s hold, the way you claimed me so thoroughly… don’t leave me wondering if that was our last.”
But he had gone, the devil protecting his Phoenix with ruthless efficiency. The ambush caught them mid
