The attack wasn't from a rival gang—it was an inside job. Someone in the Moretti family wanted Dante dead, and Elara was now the perfect leverage.
Dante moved them to a safe house in the countryside, a villa surrounded by rolling hills and lavender fields. Away from the grime of the city, the tension between them reached a breaking point. One evening, while Elara was stitching a graze on his shoulder, the silence became heavy.
"Why me?" she whispered. "You could have picked anyone to play this part."
Dante gripped her hand, his eyes darkening. "Because you're the only thing in this world that doesn't smell like gunpowder, Elara. And I'm selfish enough to want to keep that."
The romance was no longer a ruse; it was a desperate anchor. But the peace was short-lived. Elara found a burner phone hidden in the villa's vents. On it was a single message from an unknown number: "The girl is the key. Execute the plan tonight or you're both dead."
Before she could show Dante, the front door was kicked in.