The sound came again—wood splintering, heavy boots thudding against marble. Ishani froze by the window, rainwater dripping from her hair onto the polished floor. Her lips still tingled from Dante's kiss, heat flooding her veins, but the intrusion snapped reality back like a whip.
Dante's head turned sharply toward the hallway, his eyes narrowing into something colder than steel. The mask of the obsessive lover was gone, replaced by the ruthless mafia king. He moved in a flash, one hand grabbing Ishani's wrist, yanking her behind him.
"Stay behind me," he growled. His voice was low, lethal, and not to be questioned.
"I can handle myself—" she began, but the words were cut off as gunfire cracked through the air. The chandelier above them trembled, crystals clinking like tiny screams. Ishani's breath hitched. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
Before she could move, Dante spun, his arm wrapping around her waist, dragging her flush against him as he pulled her toward the side corridor. His body shielded hers completely, every muscle rigid, his movements swift and precise.
"You'll do as I say, avvocato," he hissed into her ear, using the Italian word for lawyer, his tone laced with fury and possession. "Or you'll die in this storm, and I'll drag your corpse back just to prove you were always mine."
Ishani wanted to spit fire at him, wanted to claw her way free, but the thunder of gunshots silenced her. Her throat was dry, palms trembling as he shoved her into the narrow passageway leading to his private wing.
"Dante!" one of his men shouted from the grand hall. "They're inside!"
Dante's grip tightened around her wrist. "Keep them away from this corridor. If anyone breaches, kill them." His voice was like a blade, cold, unforgiving.
As they darted into his suite, Ishani twisted, desperate to shake free. "Let me go! I'm not your property—you can't just—"
Dante slammed the door behind them, locking it with a swift motion. He shoved her back against the wall, one hand braced beside her head, his body pinning her in place. His breath was hot, his eyes burning with a dangerous mixture of fury and desire.
"Not my property?" he whispered, leaning close until his lips almost grazed hers. "Then why does every instinct in you cling to me when bullets fly?"
Her chest heaved, her palms flat against his chest, pushing—but not hard enough to break free. "I cling because you dragged me!"
He smirked darkly, leaning closer, the storm outside flashing lightning across his sharp features. "No, dolcezza. You cling because you know the truth—you're safer in the arms of the devil than in the hands of men who want you broken."
Ishani's throat tightened. She wanted to scream, to argue, but the reality clawed at her. His body was a shield, his presence an anchor, his touch—infuriatingly—steadying her racing heart.
Gunfire echoed again, closer this time. Ishani flinched, and without hesitation, Dante cupped the back of her head and pressed her face against his chest. "Don't look," he commanded softly, though the softness was a dangerous rarity. "Don't give them your fear."
His heartbeat was steady, strong, impossible to ignore. The scent of him—smoke, spice, storm—wrapped around her senses, intoxicating and infuriating all at once.
She tried to shove him back, muffled words against his shirt. "I don't need you—"
"Yes, you do." His grip tightened, his lips brushing the crown of her head in an act both possessive and oddly tender. "And I'll prove it, night after night, until you finally admit it."
The door rattled with force, someone trying to break through. Ishani gasped, but Dante only chuckled, low and dark, the sound vibrating against her ear. "Let them try."
He reached for the pistol strapped under his jacket with one hand, the other still holding her close. He aimed at the door casually, as if this intrusion was nothing more than an inconvenience.
But Ishani could feel it—the tremor of tension in his body, the deadly focus in his gaze. He wasn't just protecting her. He was claiming her, every second of danger turning into another thread binding her to him.
The rattling stopped. Footsteps retreated. Dante waited, gun raised, listening with predator's stillness. Then, slowly, he lowered the weapon, locking eyes with her.
Her breath was uneven, her lips parted, her chest brushing his with every shaky inhale. For a long moment, silence stretched between them, thick, suffocating, charged.
Dante leaned closer, his forehead almost touching hers, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "You feel it too, Ishani. The storm outside… is nothing compared to the one between us."
Her nails dug into his shirt, half in resistance, half in something she refused to name. "You're insane," she breathed.
He smirked, lips brushing the corner of hers without fully claiming. "Insane for you."
Another crash echoed from the hall, but neither of them moved this time. The danger outside blurred, eclipsed by the danger of their closeness. The mafia king and the lawyer—enemies, bound in fire, trapped in a storm that neither could escape.
And for the first time, Ishani realized that her fight wasn't just against him—it was against herself.