Page 16 of Dante
"I'm not leaving you out here," she responds, surprising me.
"How touching," the leader mocks, drawing a wicked-looking hunting knife from inside his jacket. His companions do the same, the metal gleaming in the streetlight. "The lady wants to watch."
Everything happens quickly after that. Two of the men rush forward, one toward me, one toward Raphael, who has positioned himself on my left. The leader and the fourth man hang back slightly, waiting to see how the initial engagement plays out.
The first attacker lunges with his knife, a straightforward thrust aimed at my midsection. Amateur. I step aside, letting his momentum carry him past me, then deliver a precise strike to his kidney that sends him stumbling forward. Before he can recover, I catch his knife arm, twisting it behind his back with enough force to make him drop the weapon.
Beside me, Raphael has engaged his opponent with the efficiency I've come to expect from him. A quick feint, a counterattack, and the second attacker is on his knees, blood streaming from his broken nose.
The leader curses, then signals to the fourth man. They both advance now, more cautious after seeing their companions dispatched so easily. These two are more experienced. Their stances more balanced, their approach more strategic.
"Elena," I say again, keeping my eyes on the approaching threats, "Get inside."
Instead, I hear her purse clasp snap open behind me. The leader feints left, then attacks from the right, his knife a silver blur. I block, redirecting his momentum, but he recovers quickly, circling back for another attempt.
The fourth man sees an opening, diving toward Elena while I'm engaged with the leader. I pivot, ready to intercept, but Elena isfaster than I expected. As the man lunges, she swings her heavy purse with surprising force, catching him across the face. He staggers backward, momentarily stunned.
"Get away from him!" she shouts, fierce in her defiance.
The distraction costs me. The leader's knife slices through my sleeve, drawing a line of fire across my forearm. I suppress the pain, grabbing his wrist and twisting sharply, hearing the satisfying crack as bones give way. His scream echoes in the quiet street.
The first attacker has recovered now, retrieving his dropped knife and circling back. Raphael has his hands full with his opponent and the fourth man, who has shaken off the effects of Elena's improvised weapon.
Blood trickles warm down my arm as I face the first attacker again. He's more cautious this time, recognizing I'm not an easy target. He feints, testing my reflexes, looking for weakness.
"Dante!" Elena's warning comes just as the leader, despite his broken wrist, charges again from my blind spot.
Chapter 6 - Elena
"Dante!" The warning tears from my throat as I see the leader lunging toward him.
Everything moves in slow motion. Dante pivots, somehow anticipating my warning, his elbow connecting with the leader's jaw with a sickening crunch. Blood sprays across the concrete steps. The knife clatters to the ground. Part of me wants to look away, but I can't. This violent dance is horrifying yet mesmerizing.
This isn't happening. This can't be real. I was just at a gallery opening yesterday, worrying about wine selections and lighting.
The man I'd hit with my purse recovers, his eyes finding mine with murderous intent. My momentary bravery evaporates as he advances. I back against the door, fumbling with my keys, but they slip from my trembling fingers.
"You're gonna regret that, bitch," he snarls, lunging for me.
A blur of movement, and suddenly Raphael is there, catching the man's arm mid-strike. What follows happens so quickly I can barely process it—a series of precise movements, a horrible gasping sound, and the man collapses at my feet, clutching his throat.
Nearby, Dante is handling the last attacker with terrifying efficiency. There's a strange grace to his violence, like a choreographed performance where every move has been practiced to perfection. His expression remains calm, almost detached, even as he delivers blows that would incapacitate most men.
A final strike and the last attacker drops, moaning. The entire confrontation has lasted perhaps two minutes, but it feels like hours have passed.
Dante turns to me, blood staining his sleeve, his breathing only slightly elevated. "Are you hurt?"
I shake my head, unable to form words. My purse dangles forgotten from my fingers, its contents half-spilled onto the steps. My legs feel strange, disconnected from my body.
"Good." His voice is calm, but his eyes are scanning the street, alert for further threats. "We need to go. Now."
"Go?" I finally manage. "Go where? We need to call the police—"
"No police," he cuts me off, retrieving my keys from where they'd fallen. He presses them into my palm, closing my fingers around them with surprising gentleness. "Go inside. Pack whatever you need for a few days."
"What? No, I'm not going anywhere." My voice sounds strange to my own ears. "I have the gallery tomorrow, I can't just—"
"Elena." The way he says my name—firm but concerned—stops my protests. "Those men weren't random thugs. They were sent specifically, and they won't be the last. You're coming with me to my penthouse."
