POV: Elara Winters
Elara stares at the message for so long that the phone screen goes dark.
She turns it back on. Reads it again.
"Hello, little bird. I heard you're Dante Valorian's new acquisition. How unfortunate. I'm going to enjoy taking you from him. - V"
Her hands are shaking.
She's still holding the phone when there's a knock on her door. Sarah enters without waiting for a response—something she's started doing since Elara stopped being treated like a captive.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Sarah says.
Elara holds up the phone. "I got this message."
Sarah's entire body goes rigid.
She takes the phone. Reads the message. Her expression hardens into something lethal.
"Don't move," Sarah says. She's already walking toward the door. "Stay in this room. Lock it. Don't open it for anyone except Dante or Marco."
"What's happening?" Elara calls after her.
But Sarah is already gone.
Elara locks the door. She paces. Her mind is spinning with implications. Viktor Kozlov. The name Dante mentioned once, in the car, like something poisonous. The man whose drugs her parents tried to steal. The rival.
Twenty minutes later, Dante appears.
He doesn't knock. Just enters with the kind of authority that suggests locked doors mean nothing to him. His expression is controlled, but his eyes are lethal.
"Show me the message," he says.
Elara hands him the phone.
Dante reads it. Once. Twice. His jaw clenches so hard she thinks his teeth might break.
"When did you receive this?" he asks.
"This morning. Sarah was bringing my coffee and the phone started buzzing—"
"Why didn't you come to me immediately?" Dante's voice is quiet. Dangerous.
"Because I didn't understand what it meant," Elara says. "I still don't. Who is Viktor? What does he want with me?"
Dante moves to the window. Looks out at the mountains surrounding the estate. When he speaks, his voice is carefully controlled.
"Viktor Kozlov runs the Kozlov Bratva. Russian organized crime operation. He competes with me for territory, for resources, for power." Dante turns back to face her. "Your parents weren't just stealing from me. They were stealing from Viktor too. Running drugs for both sides. Trying to play us against each other."
Elara feels sick.
"Viktor found out about you approximately forty-eight hours ago," Dante continues. "He's had people watching the estate. He knows you're here. And he's already decided you're valuable leverage."
"Leverage for what?" Elara whispers.
"For me," Dante says flatly. "He wants my territory. My ports. My distribution network. He wants to be the king of the East Coast. And he's realized that the fastest way to accomplish that is to break me." Dante steps closer. "Which means taking you."
Elara's entire body goes cold.
"I won't let that happen," Dante says. His voice is absolute certainty. "But you need to understand that your life just became significantly more complicated."
"What do we do?" Elara asks.
"We?" Dante's eyes narrow.
"I'm part of your organization now," Elara says. Steadying her voice. "Which means I'm part of this problem. Which means I'm part of the solution."
Something flickers across Dante's face. Pride, maybe. Or possessiveness. Or both.
"You're not ready," he says.
"Then train me," Elara says. "That's what Nina was talking about, wasn't it? I learn the business. I learn to protect myself. I become an actual part of this instead of just a target."
Dante walks toward her. His hand reaches up, cups her face with surprising gentleness.
"This is not a game, Elara," he says quietly. "Viktor Kozlov kills people. He doesn't hesitate. He doesn't negotiate. He takes what he wants and destroys everything else."
"Then why would he want me alive?" Elara asks.
"Because," Dante says, "he wants me to have something to lose. He wants to watch me choose between my empire and you. And he wants to see which one wins."
Elara leans into his touch. "What would you choose?"
Dante's hand tightens on her face, almost painfully.
"That's the question that terrifies me," he says.
The estate changes after that message.
Security tightens. Elara is never alone. There are always men watching. Always guards in the halls. The peaceful integration Elara was starting to enjoy becomes a fortress preparing for war.
But instead of frightening her, it sharpens something inside her.
That afternoon, Saint finds her in the studio.
"You wanted training," he says. It's not a question. Dante's apparently already told him.
"I did," Elara confirms.
"Then let's start," Saint says. "Basic self-defense. Hand-to-hand combat. Threat assessment. You won't be a fighter by next week, but you'll be harder to take."
The training is brutal.
Saint is gentle compared to what Elara expected, but his gentleness is deceptive. He throws her to the ground repeatedly. Shows her where someone would grab her. Teaches her how to break the grip. How to create distance. How to make her body a weapon instead of a liability.
By the third day, Elara is bruised everywhere.
By the fourth day, she throws Saint on his back during a sparring session.
He lies on the ground, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling.
"Again," he finally says. "Do it again."
She does. And again. Until her muscles know the move without her conscious mind having to think about it.
That night, Dante finds her icing her bruises in her room.
"Saint says you learn fast," he says.
Elara looks up. "Saint also threw me into a wall yesterday."
"Only because you needed to understand that technique doesn't matter if someone has superior leverage," Dante says. He sits on the edge of her bed. Takes her arm, examines the bruises. "You're going to be sore for weeks."
"Good," Elara says. "I want to be stronger."
Dante's eyes darken.
"Why?" he asks.
"Because I'm tired of being fragile," Elara says. "I'm tired of being something that needs protecting. I want to be someone who can protect herself. Who can stand beside you instead of hiding behind you."
Dante reaches out. His fingers trace one of the bruises on her shoulder.
"When I was seventeen," he says quietly, "my father told me that love is a weakness. That caring about people makes you vulnerable." He looks at her. "I spent fifteen years proving him right. Making sure I didn't care about anything I couldn't afford to lose."
Elara waits.
"And then you walked into my life covered in rain and rage," Dante continues, "and you asked me to kill you like it was the most natural request in the world. And something in me recognized itself. Another person who'd been broken and decided that was just the natural state of things."
He reaches for her face. His thumb traces her cheekbone.
"I need you to understand," he says, "that my father was lying. That love isn't weakness. But it is risk. And I'm risking everything by letting you matter to me."
"Then why are you?" Elara asks.
"Because," Dante says, "when you're in this world long enough, you forget what it means to want something for reasons other than power or survival. And you were the first person in a decade who made me remember."
He kisses her then. Soft. Careful. Like she might break.
Elara pulls him closer. Kisses him harder. Because she understands—they're not gentle people pretending to be ruthless. They're ruthless people learning how to be gentle.
The next day, Ivy appears in the studio.
"You're going to learn technology," Ivy says. "Information is currency in this world. And if you're going to work with us, you need to know how to access it, protect it, use it."
Elara learns quickly. Ivy teaches her about surveillance systems, about hacking, about the digital fingerprints everyone leaves behind. She teaches her how to disappear online. How to find people who don't want to be found.
"Why are you helping me?" Elara asks one evening.
Ivy smiles slightly. "Because I was in your position once. Desperate. Trapped. Decided I'd rather learn to survive than wait to be rescued." She taps the keyboard. "Dante's a good man, but he's still a man. You need your own power. Not power he gives you. Power you take."
By the second week, Elara is different.
She moves differently. Stands differently. Her voice carries authority now instead of apology.
Dante watches the transformation like he's both proud and terrified.
One evening, he finds her in the library—her library now, not his. She's reading a book on criminal law that Nina recommended.
"What are you studying?" he asks.
"How to protect myself legally," Elara says. "If Viktor takes me, I want to know what my rights are. What evidence they'd need to charge him. How I could potentially use the justice system against him."
Dante stares at her.
"You're terrifying," he finally says.
Elara smiles. "Good."
Then, that night, Sarah brings her a phone with a new message.
"Three days, Valorian. You have three days to give me the girl, or I take her. And I'll make sure you understand exactly what your sentimentality costs you."
Attached is a photo. Of Elara. Taken from the estate. Through the library window.
They've been watching her. The entire time. They know where she sleeps. Where she trains. Where she reads.
When Dante sees the photo, something dark and primal overtakes his expression.
"Pack a bag," he says. "We're leaving."
"Where are we going?" Elara asks.
"Somewhere safe," Dante says. "Somewhere Viktor can't find you."
"What about your operation?" Elara asks. "Your people? Your territory?"
"They matter less than you do," Dante says. "And if I have to choose between an empire and keeping you alive, I choose you. Every time. No hesitation. No question."
He says it like a vow.
And Elara realizes, in that moment, that they're beyond the point of return. That Dante Valorian, the man who was supposed to be incapable of love, has become someone who would burn everything for her.
Which means Viktor just made his first mistake.
Because Elara is no longer a bargaining chip.
She's become a reason to wage war.