The dresser screeched across the linoleum floor, a sound like nails on a coffin. Elara was backed into the corner of the small motel room, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. Her blouse, already torn from the night's earlier violence, slipped further, exposing the pale, trembling curve of her shoulder. Every time the door gave another inch, her breasts heaved, the soft mounds jiggling with the frantic rhythm of her terror.
"Please," she whispered to the empty air, "Dante, please."
The door finally swung wide enough for a hand to reach through—a hand clad in a pristine white silk glove. It didn't look like the hand of a killer; it looked like the hand of a priest. But the way the fingers curled around the wood, with a slow, deliberate strength, told a far darker story.
"The daughter of Vance," the voice from the hallway crooned. It was Stage 3—The Circle. "The blood of the architect is the mortar of our temple. Open the way, Elara."
Just as the dresser was about to be shoved aside completely, a shadow descended upon the hallway like a falling axe.
There was a sickening thud, followed by the sound of bone shattering against stone. A body hit the door from the outside, slamming it shut for a split second before the hallway erupted into a symphony of violence. Elara heard the heavy, unmistakable crack of Dante's fist hitting flesh, and the wet, guttural gargle of a man losing his breath—and his life.
The door burst open, and Dante stormed in.
He was a vision of carnage. His bare chest was splattered with fresh crimson, and his knuckles were split and bleeding. He looked less like a man and more like a vengeful god. He didn't say a word; he simply lunged for her, his large hand wrapping around her waist and hauling her against his hard, sweat-slicked body.
"Did they touch you?" he roared, his eyes searching her face with a frantic, possessive hunger.
"No... no, you came back," she sobbed, burying her face in the crook of his neck. The scent of iron and sandalwood was overwhelming, but it was the only thing that felt real.
Dante kicked the door shut and shoved the dresser back into place with a grunt of exertion. He turned to her, his breath coming in heavy, jagged bursts. The adrenaline from the kill was still surging through him, and his gaze dropped to where her blouse had fallen away. The sight of her—terrified, trembling, and beautiful—seemed to snap something inside him.
He slammed her against the wall, his body pinning hers with a crushing weight. "I told you to stay away from the door," he hissed, his mouth hovering inches from hers. "I told you I would protect you."
"Dante, I found something," she gasped, her hands shaking as she reached for the USB drive on the bed. "The drive... my father... he wasn't who I thought he was."
Dante froze. He took the drive, his eyes scanning the laptop screen that was still glowing with the ledger of "Assets" and the plans for the Tabernacle. As he scrolled through the names, his face went from rage to a cold, terrifying stillness.
"He built their cages," Dante whispered, his voice like dry ice. "He wasn't just an architect. He was their engineer of misery."
He looked at Elara, and for a second, she saw a flicker of suspicion in his dark eyes—a doubt that cut deeper than any blade. "Did you know? Did you help him draw these lines, Elara?"
"No! I swear!" she cried, the tears finally breaking. "I thought we were just building a home for you. I didn't know about the 'Assets.' I didn't know about the girls!"
Her distress was visceral. Her chest was heaving so violently that her breasts jiggled and strained against the remnants of her lace bra, the tips dark and hard from the cold and the fear. Dante watched the movement, his jaw tightening. The conflict in him was visible—the desire to punish the daughter of his enemy and the primal need to claim the woman he had grown obsessed with.
The obsession won.
He grabbed both her wrists in one hand, pinning them above her head. With the other, he gripped her jaw, forcing her to look him in the eye. "If you're lying to me, Elara, I'll be the one to put you in the cage your father built. But if you're telling the truth..."
He trailed off, his gaze dropping to her mouth. "Then you belong to me even more. Because you have nowhere else to go. No name, no family. Just me."
He kissed her then—a brutal, claiming kiss that tasted of salt and blood. He wasn't gentle. He needed to feel her submission, to know that despite her father's sins, her body belonged to the Moretti Syndicate. He reached down, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her skirt and ripping it down her legs in one violent motion.
Elara let out a choked cry, her private parts throbbing with a confused, intense heat. She was a daughter of a monster, being held by a devil, and yet, the way his hands moved over her skin made her feel more alive than she had ever been. As he entered her—rough and deep, pinning her against the cheap motel wallpaper—the jiggling of her breasts against his scarred chest and the rhythmic slap of their bodies drowned out the world.
She felt the throb of her pussy as it gripped him, a desperate, pulsing reaction to his dominance. In that moment, she wasn't an architect or a daughter. She was his.
But as they moved in that dark, neon-lit room, the laptop screen flickered. A new file began to auto-download from the drive.
A video feed.
Dante didn't see it, but Elara did, over his shoulder. It was a live stream from a hidden camera in a dark, damp room. A man sat tied to a chair, his face beaten beyond recognition.
It was her father.
And standing behind him, holding a scalpel to his throat, was Sloane. The Underboss looked into the camera and smiled, his oily eyes seemingly staring right through the screen at Elara.
"Ten minutes, Dante," Sloane's voice came through the laptop speakers, distorted and vile. "That's all I asked for. Now, I'm going to take my time. Tell the girl to watch. This is what happens to architects who lose their touch."
Dante stopped, his body still buried inside her, as the sound of her father's first scream filled the small motel room.