Page 93 of Shadows of Steel
Dante’s grip tightens around the man’s wrist, his strength an unspoken promise of devastation. The pressure builds, and I swear I hear bones groan in protest before, with one fluid motion, he wrenches the arm upward and slams it against the bar with a force that rattles the glasses.
Before anyone can react, the unmistakable crack of a gunshot rips through the air, sharp and deafening. A strangled scream follows as crimson splatters across the gleaming bar, staining its pristine surface. A second shot fires off just as swiftly, another agonized cry tearing through the stunned silence as fresh blood seeps from the newly inflicted wound.
The room falls into a suffocating stillness, tension thick enough to smother. All eyes remain fixed on the scene before them, horrified, frozen in collective shock.
With an air of dominance, Dante slides the gun back into its holster, as if the entire ordeal were nothing more than a fleeting inconvenience. Broad shoulders roll back, tension dissipating as he turns to face the room, his gaze sweeping over the gathered crowd with chilling detail. “Everyone, listen closely, and doso carefully, because I do not repeat myself.” The words cut through the stunned silence.
A slow, knowing smirk tugs at his lips, dark amusement dancing behind those eyes. His tone deepens, threading with something far more perilous as he gestures toward me.
“This woman here?” His voice fluid. “She is Mrs. Harlow Salvatore. My fucking wife.” His gaze sweeps across the room. “Take a good look. Etch her face into your memory, because it’ll be the last thing you see if you ever forget who she belongs to. No one touches her. No one even fucking looks at her unless they have a death wish.”
The room stirs, the shifting of bodies almost imperceptible as hushed whispers ripple outward like a wildfire consuming dry earth.
Towering over the wretched fool, Dante’s voice drops lower, each syllable laced with quiet destruction. “Now, run.”
A strangled groan escapes the man as he clutches his mangled hands, his entire body trembling under the weight of agony. Panic sets in, his breaths uneven, ragged, as he stumbles backward, desperation stripping away what little composure he had left. In his frantic attempt to retreat, his foot catches, and he collapses, hitting the floor with a graceless thud. The impact is pitiful, yet not nearly as humiliating as the way he scrambles upright, hands slick with blood, legs barely holding him steady.
Dante exhales, slow and unimpressed. “Fucking tedious.” His gaze remains impassive, watching the man flounder. As he stumbles toward the door, desperate to flee, Dante’s men intercept him, gripping his arms in an iron hold. My husband tilts his head, scanning the room, his voice a booming command that cuts through the thick silence. “You didn’t think I’d gone soft and let a man walk free after daring to touch what’s mine, did you?” From across the room, Mario and Leonardo observe in silence, their posture unbothered, relaxed, yet there is nothingidle about the way they watch. The crowd is frozen, as if afraid that even blinking will set my husband off.
Dante turns sharply, gripping my hand without hesitation, his movements firm and decisive. Without another word, he begins walking toward the exit. With his grip firm around mine, I am pulled behind him, trailing in his wake, my heels clicking as I try to match his pace.
And then, I stop.
I rip my hand from his, planting my feet firmly in place, refusing to be led like some obedient little wife.
Dante’s steps halt immediately, his broad shoulders stiffening before he slowly turns to face me. His brows pull together, confusion flickering in his stormy eyes, his sharp jaw tightening as he tries to decipher my sudden resistance.
I smile at him, sweet yet pointed. With slow movements, I step forward, closing the space between us, letting the warmth of my body press against his.
My fingers trail lightly over the luxurious fabric of his tuxedo, the custom tailoring moulding perfectly to the hard, defined muscles beneath. His breath hitches, a small, involuntary reaction, barely noticeable, but I catch it. His gaze drags over my face, heavy with something dark and dangerous. I slide his jacket aside, my fingers slipping into the Italian leather holster strapped against his side.
His body tenses beneath my fingertips, his muscles coiling tight, as if torn between letting me continue and stopping me in my tracks. His hand reaches for me, a reflex, an instinct, but before he can touch me, I step back, taking the gun with me. The weight of it settles into my palm familiar and comforting.
The air in the room shifts, growing heavier, charged with an almost suffocating tension, as if even the walls themselves are holding their breath. If it was silent before, now it is deathly still.
“In this marriage, husband, we are equals.” My words slice through the thick silence. I tilt my head, my lips curling into the ghost of a smile. “Whatever you give, you shall receive in turn.”
Without warning, I turn and pull the trigger.
The gunshot rips through the room, a piercing, ear splitting scream following. Marta collapses, crashing onto the floor, her manicured fingers clawing at her shoulder, blood blooming across the delicate fabric of her gown.
Gasps ripple through the room, and yet, despite their horror, not a single one of them moves.
I turn back toward Dante. His expression is unreadable at first, carefully composed, sculpted from stone. But then slowly, ever so slightly, the corner of his lips quirks up.
He’s smiling.
But not just any smile.
No, this is something else entirely, a look of dark satisfaction, of unmistakable, unrepentant pride.
My psycho husband is actually proud of me.
I step closer, pressing the still-warm gun into his hand, amusement flickering in my gaze. “A demonstration of equilibrium, wouldn’t you agree?”
Dante’s fingers curl around the weapon, his grip tightening, eyes flashing with primal need. Before I can take a step back, his hand is in my hair, fisting it, yanking me forward with a force that steals my breath. I collide against his chest, the air between us turning electric, molten. Then his mouth crashes onto mine, destructive, forceful, a kiss meant to consume. His tongue strokes into my mouth, claiming, dominating, demanding my response. And I give it, because how could I not?
I meet him with equal hunger, nails scraping against his suit, tugging him closer, biting back a moan as he deepens it. When we finally break apart, his breath is ragged, his smirk purearrogance. But I narrow my eyes at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of my surrender.
