CH-4

Isabella POV

He stands in the doorway like he belongs to it.

Backlit by moonlight. Shirtless. Gun in hand. Quiet as death.

And somehow, this moment is even more terrifying than the day I watched my mother bleed out on marble floors.

Because this time… the gun is for me.

Or it isn’t.

I can’t tell.

My fingers tighten on the folder.

“Say something,” I whisper, throat raw.

Dante stares at me for three long, punishing seconds. His voice, when it comes, is low. Flat. Merciless.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“So it’s true,” I say. “You were sent for me. I was a job.”

His jaw flexes. “Three years ago, yes.”

I flinch like he hit me.

“But that file’s dead,” he adds, stepping closer, slowly. “Buried. Burned. I killed for you, Isabella. I broke the contract.”

I back away as he advances. “You didn’t burn it. You hid it.”

“To remind myself,” he says darkly. “That if I ever forgot what I was… I didn’t deserve you.”

My voice cracks. “You never deserved me.”

He lowers the gun to the table, slow and deliberate.

“You’re right.”

I want to scream.

But my rage is bigger than sound. It’s hot and tight and clawing through my chest like fire looking for a way out.

“You let me fall in love with you,” I hiss. “While you were assigned to end me.”

“No,” he snaps, stepping forward. “I was assigned to observe. To evaluate. The kill order never came—because I refused it.”

“And if it had?” I spit. “Would you have kissed me first? Fucked me first?”

Something in his eyes shatters.

“No,” he breathes. “I’d have died before I touched you.”

I shove the folder at his chest. “Then why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

“Because you were already breaking,” he says, voice ragged. “And if you knew the full story… you wouldn’t have survived it.”

My laugh is bitter. “And you thought I’d survive this?”

He closes the distance between us with slow, deliberate steps, the same way he used to stalk targets. But I don’t move.

Because I’m tired of running.

“I couldn’t tell you who killed your mother,” he says, each word like glass under my skin.

My breath stalls. “Because you did.”

He looks down.

Silent.

“I was the blade,” he whispers. “But not the hand that guided it.”

He lifts his gaze to mine, raw and bleeding.

“I didn’t know who she was. I didn’t know she was your mother. They gave me a photo, a location, and a window. I took the shot. And by the time I saw the aftermath… I knew I’d damned myself.”

I shake my head, blinking back rage-tears.

“You knew who I was when you kissed me.”

“Yes,” he says hoarsely. “And I would’ve slit my own throat before hurting you.”

“Then why come back now?” I whisper.

His jaw tightens.

“Because someone reopened the file.”

My heart stops.

“They’re coming for you again,” he says. “Only this time, it won’t be one assassin. It’ll be an army.”

He doesn’t touch me again that night.

He gives me space.

But space only stretches the silence, letting it swell between us until it’s thick enough to choke on.

When I crawl into bed, sleep never comes.

I keep replaying it.

My mother’s blood.

His voice whispering “stay down.”

The way he held me after the gunfire stopped.

How he didn’t know.

Or so he claims.

FLASHBACK – The Night My Mother Died

There were three gunshots.

One through the window.

Two through the front door.

Dante covered my body before they even landed. Shielded me with his own. I remember the way his heartbeat pounded against my spine, the low growl in his throat when he kicked open the safe room and shoved me inside.

“Don’t come out,” he said, eyes wild. “No matter what you hear.”

I thought he was protecting me.

But now?

Now I wonder if he was hiding me from his guilt.

PRESENT

The next day, he trains me.

Ruthlessly.

His version of penance.

“You need to learn to fight dirty,” he grunts, catching my wrist mid-strike. “No rules. No hesitation.”

“I don’t hesitate.”

“Then why are you still afraid of touching me?”

I lunge. He flips me. I land hard.

“Asshole,” I groan.

“Better than dead.”

I roll onto my back, glaring up at him. “You always train like this? Or just when the girl you failed might finally kill you in your sleep?”

He smirks. “Only when she looks that good doing it.”

I throw dirt at his face. He catches my ankle and drags me toward him.

And just like that, the air shifts.

Again.

Tension. Pull. Heat.

My legs straddle his hips. His hands are on my waist. His breath fans across my cheek.

He doesn’t kiss me.

Not this time.

Because he’s waiting for me to break.

I lean in.

But before our lips meet, a crack echoes through the trees.

A shot.

Dante rolls us, shielding me. “Stay down.”

But this time, I don’t obey.

I grab the pistol from his hip and roll to the tree line, heart pounding, instincts screaming.

Two figures. Armed. Moving fast.

“Suppressors,” Dante curses, beside me. “They’re close.”

We fire together. A dance we know too well. His body covers mine. My bullet hits one in the leg. His finishes the job.

The second escapes.

But not before I see the tattoo on his neck.

A black wolf’s head inside a crown.

Famiglia Volkov.

Russian mob.

And their assassins don’t miss.

Unless… they weren’t aiming to kill.

They were watching.

Tracking.

Back inside, I slam the bolt on the door, pulse still erratic. I turn to Dante, but he’s frozen—staring at something pinned to the wall.

A note.

No blood. No break-in. Just a single sheet stabbed through with a silver blade.

"Your secret dies with her. - V"

I stare at him. “Who’s V?”

His voice is a whisper.

“Your brother.”