Chapter 4
1160 Words
(Dante’s POV)
They say power is inherited, but that’s a lie. Power isn’t something you’re born with, it’s something you take, something you bleed for.
My father understood that.
He taught me how to break a man before I was old enough to understand what mercy was. How to pull a trigger without flinching. How to carve out a man’s throat and watch the life drain from his eyes without feeling a single ounce of regret.
There was no kindness in the Volkov dynasty. Only survival.
From a young age, I was groomed to take over for my father. The Volkov dynasty was built on strength, power, and survival, not on kindness. But even the strongest empires can fall apart.
My father's enemies, a rival gang he had fought against for years finally got their revenge. They attacked him in his own home, taking him down without hesitation. Then, they came after me.
I should’ve died that night. I was outnumbered, bleeding out in an alley, my vision swimming as I fought to stay conscious. But then she found me a nurse with too much heart and not enough sense. She brought me into her home, patched me up, and saved my life.
I didn’t understand why she’d risk everything for a stranger. But now, as I spent some days with her, I knew. She was mine. Not because I’d claimed her, but because she’d claimed me. She’d pulled me back from the edge of death, and in doing so, she’d bound me to her in a way I couldn’t explain.
I owe her my life. And I’d protect her, no matter the cost.
A loud knock shattered the quiet.
It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t a neighbor asking for sugar or security checking on a noise complaint. It was sharp and felt wrong.
Sofia froze by the kitchen counter, fingers tightening around her coffee mug. Her knuckles turned white.
She looked at me, wide-eyed. Silent. Questioning.
I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to. We both knew.
A voice came through the door. Calm. Too calm.
“Miss Moretti, we’re with building security. We need to check something.”
Lies. Real security wouldn’t talk like that. Not in this city. Not at this hour.
Sofia’s grip on the mug tightened. Her breathing hitched, so quiet I almost didn’t hear it.
I moved before she could. Two quick strides. My hand caught her wrist, pulling her into the hallway’s shadows.
Her pulse thudded beneath my fingers. Fast. Panicked.
“Don’t,” I whispered, my voice low. My free hand came up, covering her mouth. Not rough. Not gentle. Just necessary.
Her body tensed for half a second. Then she nodded. Good girl.
The knock came again. Louder. Impatient.
Then I heard it. The sound I was waiting for.
A shift of weight outside the door. The quiet creak of boots against the floor.
They weren’t waiting.
A second later, the lock snapped. The sharp crack echoed through the apartment. The door swung open.
Three men stepped inside.
They moved fast, silent. Tactical boots dirtied Sofia’s spotless floor. Their eyes scanned the space, calculating. Searching.
One stayed near the kitchen, keeping watch. The other two headed down the hall. Toward us.
They didn’t know if I was here. Not for sure.
But they suspected.
Sofia trembled beside me. I felt it. A faint vibration through her wrist.
I squeezed her hand. Just once. Stay quiet.
She obeyed.
One of the men spoke. His voice was smooth. Taunting.
“You live alone, Miss Moretti?”
I clenched my jaw. He was testing her.
Sofia hesitated. Too long.
The man smirked. He took a step closer to the counter.
Her body stiffened.
He noticed.
His hand shot out, gripping her arm.
“I asked you a question.”
She jerked back. “Let go of me.”
He didn’t. Instead, his other hand lifted.
He was going to slap her.
I moved. Fast.
His hand never reached her.
My arm locked around his throat. A sharp slice across his neck.
The blade was quick. Precise.
He gasped, his fingers clawing at his throat as blood poured out. He staggered.
He didn’t get back up.
The second man reached for his gun.
Too slow.
I grabbed a knife from the counter. Threw it.
It sank into his chest.
He sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers twitching. His hand still clutched his gun.
He fired.
BANG.
The shot was deafening.
The bullet slammed into the drywall. Inches from Sofia.
She flinched, eyes blown wide, but she didn’t scream.
The second man collapsed. His chest heaved once. Twice. Then nothing.
The third man turned and ran.
Coward.
I caught him before he made it two steps. Grabbed the back of his jacket.
Slammed him into the wall.
Plaster cracked.
His head snapped back, his eyes wide with fear.
“Wait—” he started.
I didn’t wait.
The knife sank into his stomach. Deep. Deliberate.
He let out a choked breath. I twisted the blade. Felt the resistance give way.
He slid down the wall, legs crumpling.
Then—silence.
The only sound was the steady drip of blood pooling on the tile.
I stood still for a moment, my breathing steady. Controlled.
The apartment smelled like gunpowder. Blood. Metal.
I turned.
Sofia hadn’t moved.
She stood in the same spot, her hands trembling, a red splatter staining the front of her scrubs. A streak of blood on her cheek.
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
Her eyes weren’t on me. They were on the bodies.
The shock in her face wasn’t just fear.
It was realization.
She’d always known I was dangerous. But knowing and seeing aren’t the same.
Now she’d seen.
I stepped toward her. Slow. Careful.
“Now you know what I am,” I said.
She didn’t answer.
She didn’t need to.
I reached into her pocket, took her phone. She didn’t stop me.
Scrolled through her contacts. Found the number I needed.
One ring. Two. Then a voice on the other end.
“Cleanup.” That was all I said.
The line went dead.
I turned back to her.
This time, I moved slower. My fingers brushed her arm.
She flinched. A small movement. Almost nothing.
But I noticed.
It shouldn’t have mattered.
But it did.
“I’ll take care of this,” I said, stepping back. Giving her space.
For a moment, she didn’t move. Then, her lips parted, voice shaking.
“Is this… normal for you?”
I didn’t lie.
“Yes.”
She swallowed hard. Her eyes flicked to the bodies, then back to me.
She didn’t say anything else.
She didn’t have to.
By morning, the cleanup crew would erase the blood.
The floors would be spotless. The walls would be clean.
But it didn’t matter.
Because the stains weren’t on the floor.
They were in her head.
And she’d never be able to scrub them out.
- Writer
