The Enemy Who Saved Me

Chapter Four: The Alliance

We stayed in the supply closet for a long time after Dante spoke, and neither of us said anything.

He sat on the crate of gauze with the journal still in his hands, staring at the cover like he was scared that it might disappear if he looked away. I leaned against the shelves across from him, arms crossed, watching him in silence.

It wasn't an awkward silence.

It felt heavy—the kind of quiet that settles after a glass object shatters. Like that of a funeral, when everyone has gone home and you're left alone, trying to figure out how to keep breathing.

Finally, Dante looked up at me.

"Are you still working for him?" he asked.

The question caught me off guard.

"No," I said.

"Not even a little?"

"Not anymore."

He studied my face for a moment, searching for hesitation, for a lie, but he wouldn't find one.

"I should hate you," he said quietly.

"You should," I replied.

"You came here to kill me."

"I know."

"You lied to me every day.

I swallowed. "I know that too."

Dante set the journal aside and slowly pushed himself to his feet.

I could tell his body was still in pain from the way he braced one hand against the wall. His body was still healing.

He didn't look weak; he looked rather tired, and there was a clear difference.

"Why did you stop?" he asked.

"Stop what?"

"Wanting to kill me."

I thought about it, like, really thought about it, and the answer should've been simple, but it wasn't. I thought about the journals, my dad, and the pained look on Dante's face when he talked about failing him.

"You wrote everything down," I admitted to him.

"You had the chance to destroy those journals—to erase every trace of the truth. But you didn't."

"You didn't have to write any of that down or keep it."

I paused and looked him dead in the eye.

"But you chose to do so and kept proof of who you were," I continued. "Even when it made you look guilty too."

For the first time since I'd met him, he smiled.

"That's probably the nicest thing anyone's said to me in years."

I let out a quiet breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

We couldn't stay in the supply closet forever.

...

Eventually, I helped him back to his room.

His hand was still bleeding from where he'd ripped the IV, so I sat him down on the bed, cleaned the blood from his skin, and reinserted a line.

He watched me the entire time.

"You're good at this," he said.

"I'm a surgeon," I replied. "This is just the easy part."

"You're a surgeon pretending to be a nurse."

I sighed. "Please don't remind me."

A faint smile formed on his face.

I finished taping the IV and stepped back.

Dante leaned against the pillows, watching me carefully with those eyes. The confusion that had once clouded his eyes since he woke up was gone now. He looked more focused like he was finally seeing me clearly.

"Marco gave you one week," he said.

"Yes."

"Then we have six days left."

I frowned. "Today counts?"

"Today definitely counts."

Dante reached for the journal resting beside him and flipped through the pages slowly, stopping every so often as if certain words were pulling memories back in place. Then he froze.

"I know where the evidence is," he said finally.

I straightened immediately. "What evidence?"

"The files Enzo collected against Marco."

My pulse quickened as I heard that.

"Where?" I asked. "You mentioned your penthouse."

"No," he shook his head. "Marco's house," he said, looking up at me. "In the wine cellar."

I stared at him. "You hid the evidence against your brother in his own house?"

"It seemed like the last place he'd think to search," he said.

"That's insane."

"That's survival," he corrected.

I dropped into the chair beside his bed; my legs suddenly felt weak. I felt lightheaded.

"How do we get it?" I managed to ask.

"We don't," he said. "I do."

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘴 𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘢 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯.

I blinked at him. "Are you out of your mind? You can barely walk!"

"I can walk just fine, Elena."

"You ripped out your IV and bled as you made your way to the supply closet." I said. "You collapsed ten minutes ago."

Dante's mouth twitched. "That was dramatic."

I pressed my lips together, trying not to laugh, but failed.

A sweet smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it, and he noticed. His expression softened.

"We're doing this together," I said firmly. "I'm not letting you walk into Marco's house alone."

"You barely trusted me twelve hours ago."

"Twelve hours ago, I thought you murdered my father, and I did not come this far to watch you get yourself killed."

Dante stared at me for a long moment before he finally nodded.

"Fine," he said.

And for the next hour, we made a plan. Dante used a hospital form to draw a map of Marco's house from memory—every entrance, every room, every hallway, and every security camera he could remember.

"The wine cellar is in the basement," he explained while tapping the paper. "There's a side entrance through the garden, but there's security."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I installed it years ago before Marco and I became—" He paused, searching for the word. "Whatever we are now," he said.

I thought "enemies," but I couldn't say it.

"The cameras rotate every thirty seconds," he continued. "There's a blind spot near the garden entrance. If we time it right, we can infiltrate his house without being seen."

"You've done this before," I said with intuition.

"I've done a lot of things before."

There was something in the way he said it that made me pause, and it wasn't pride; it was more like regret. I looked at him differently then—not with fear or anger anymore but with curiosity.

"What happened to you?" I asked him quietly. "To make you like this?"

For a moment, he didn't answer. Then he said, "My father."

I stayed silent, giving him the time to continue.

"He raised me to be useful—a weapon," Dante said. "Marco was supposed to be the heir, but my father thought he was too reckless and emotional." His jaw tightened slightly. "So he trained me instead."

"To do what?"

"To survive."

The way he said it made my chest ache.

"That must've been hard," I said softly.

"It was lonely."

The word lingered between us, and I understood that feeling more than I wanted to admit.

...

Around midnight, a nurse came in to check Dante's vitals. I stepped out into the hallway while she worked, leaning against the wall with my arms crossed.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

𝘚𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭.

𝗠𝗮𝗿𝗰𝗼: 𝗔𝗻𝘆 𝘂𝗽𝗱𝗮𝘁𝗲𝘀?

I stared at the message. A few days ago, I would've answered immediately. But now, the sight of his name made my stomach turn.

I typed back: 𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗛𝗲'𝘀 𝗮𝘀𝗹𝗲𝗲𝗽.

His reply came seconds later.

𝗞𝗲𝗲𝗽 𝗺𝗲 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗱.

I shoved the phone back into my pocket before I could throw it across the hallway.

When I returned to the room, the nurse was gone. Dante was sitting up in bed waiting for me. I could tell because his gaze was fixated on the door for a while.

"Marco?" he asked.

"He wants updates."

"Are you going to give him any?"

"No."

Something in his shoulders loosened slightly at that answer, and then he nodded slowly.

"Then we have six days to stay alive," he said.

"That's the plan."

He held out his hand slowly and looked up at me. I felt myself looking at it for a second before taking it. His fingers curled gently around mine.

"I am so sorry," he said quietly. "For everything my family did to yours."

"You didn't kill my father," I said.

"No," he admitted. "But I didn't stop it either."

"Neither did I," I whispered.

Dante pulled me a little closer—not demanding, just asking, and I let him. He rested his forehead against mine, and we stayed like that in silence, sharing the same air and exhaustion.

"I don't know how to trust anyone anymore," he admitted.

"Neither do I."

His thumb brushed lightly against my hand.

"Then maybe we figure it out together," he said.

I closed my eyes.

For the first time in two years, I wasn't thinking about revenge. I was just there, with him.

Dante fell asleep around two in the morning. I stayed in the chair beside his bed watching the rise and fall of his chest as the monitors beeped softly and the city lights flickered through the window.

My phone buzzed one last time.

𝗠𝗮𝗿𝗰𝗼: 𝗢𝗻𝗲 𝘄𝗲𝗲𝗸, 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗴𝗲𝘁.

I didn't answer. I then looked at Dante sleeping peacefully, for the first time since I'd met him.

The sharp lines on his face had softened, his dark hair falling across his forehead, and one hand rested near mine on the blanket.

Even in his unconscious state, he didn't want me far away.

𝘚𝘪𝘹 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴.

A war was waiting for us outside those hospital walls.

But for the first time since my dad died, I didn't feel alone anymore.