His Ruthless Claim

"DANTE!" Isla's scream cut through the night air like a blade. Time slowed to a nightmare crawl. Dante turned, his dark eyes finding hers across the pier-and in that frozen moment, Isla saw everything. Recognition. Understanding. And something that looked like goodbye. Luca's finger tightened on the trigger. The gunshot cracked like thunder. But Dante was already moving. He threw himself sideways as Marco's return fire lit up the darkness. The bullet that should have killed him caught his left shoulder instead, spinning him around. He hit the concrete hard, blood already blooming across his white shirt. "No!" Isla tried to run to him, but Marco's arm locked around her waist, dragging her back behind cover as bullets tore through the air. "Stay down!" Marco shouted, his weapon up, returning fire at the Moretti soldiers who'd emerged from every shadow. Isla could barely hear him over the pounding of her heart. All she could see was Dante, lying motionless on the pier, blood pooling beneath him. Too much blood. God, there was too much blood. "We have to get him!" she screamed, fighting against Marco's iron grip. "He's dying!" "If you run out there, you'll die too. And then he'll have taken that bullet for nothing." Marco's voice was harsh, but his hands were gentle as he held her back. "Trust me. I've got him." He spoke rapidly into his radio, calling for backup, for medical, for extraction. Around them, the night exploded with violence. Muzzle flashes. Shouting. The metallic smell of gunpowder mixing with salt air and blood. Through it all, Dante didn't move. A black SUV screeched to a halt at the edge of the pier. Two of Dante's men jumped out, laying down covering fire. Marco saw his chance. "Stay behind me," he ordered Isla, then sprinted toward Dante's fallen form. Isla ran after him, ignoring his curse. She wasn't hiding while Dante bled out. Not when this was her fault. If she'd just- A bullet whizzed past her head, close enough to feel the heat. She dropped instinctively, her heart in her throat. "Isla, get back!" Marco roared. But she was already crawling forward, keeping low, focused only on reaching Dante. When she got to him, her hands immediately went to his shoulder, pressing down on the wound. Hot blood soaked through her fingers. "Dante," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Dante, please. Please don't leave me." His eyes fluttered open-dark, pain-hazed, but alive. "Isla," he managed, his voice rough. "You should... run." "Shut up. I'm not leaving you." Tears streamed down her face as she pressed harder, trying to stop the bleeding. "You don't get to die on me. You hear me? You don't get to kiss me like that and then die." The ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Bossy." "You have no idea." Marco reached them, grabbing Dante under his good arm. "Help me get him up. We've got maybe thirty seconds before they regroup." Together, they hauled Dante to his feet. He bit back a groan, his face going white with pain, but he stayed conscious. Barely. They half-carried, half-dragged him toward the waiting SUV. Behind them, the Moretti soldiers were advancing. Ahead, Dante's men provided covering fire, but they were outnumbered. Twenty feet from the vehicle, Dante's legs gave out. "Keep going," he gasped. "Leave me." "Not a chance," Isla said fiercely, taking more of his weight despite being half his size. Adrenaline gave her impossible strength. "Marco, help me!" "I've got him." Marco lifted Dante in a fireman's carry, ignoring his boss's weak protest. "Isla, run. Now!" She ran. Bullets sparked off the concrete around them. Someone screamed-one of Dante's men went down. But then they were at the SUV, and Marco was shoving Dante into the back seat, and Isla was climbing in after him, pulling his head onto her lap. "Go!" Marco shouted to the driver as he slammed the door. The SUV peeled out, tires screaming. Through the back window, Isla saw chaos-Moretti soldiers scattering, Dante's men retreating, the pier lit up like a war zone. And standing at the center of it all, illuminated by fire from a burning car, was Luca. He was staring after them, his face a mask of fury and something that might have been regret. Then they rounded a corner, and he was gone. "Dante." Isla looked down at the man in her lap. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. Blood soaked his shirt, her jeans, the leather seat. "Stay with me. Please stay with me." "Hospital's ten minutes out," the driver said, his knuckles white on the wheel as he wove through traffic at breakneck speed. "He's gonna make it, Ms. Rivera." "He has to," she whispered, her hand finding Dante's. His fingers were cold. Too cold. "He has to." Marco was on his phone, rapid-fire Italian, coordinating something. Then he turned to her, his expression grim. "We have a problem," he said. "Luca didn't just ambush us. He hit three of our other locations simultaneously. Warehouses, safe houses. This was coordinated. He's trying to start an all-out war." Isla's heart sank. "How many casualties?" "Too many." Marco's jaw clenched. "And it's going to get worse when word gets out that Dante's been shot. Every rival family in the city will see it as weakness. As opportunity." "Then we don't let word get out." Both men looked at her. "What are you suggesting?" Marco asked. "We control the narrative. Tell your people Dante wasn't hit-that he took out Luca's ambush and he's more dangerous than ever." She looked down at Dante's too-pale face. "Buy him time to recover. Make them afraid to move against him." Marco studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "You think like him. Like a strategist." "I think like an accountant. It's all about risk assessment and misdirection." She pressed her hand harder against Dante's wound, trying to will her warmth into him. "Just get us to the hospital. I'll handle the rest." ⸻ The hospital was a blur of fluorescent lights and urgent voices. Dante was whisked away to surgery the moment they arrived. Isla tried to follow, but a nurse stopped her. "Family only beyond this point." "I'm his-" Isla started, then faltered. What was she? His captive? His employee? His... "She's his fiancée," Marco said smoothly, appearing at her shoulder. He showed the nurse something-a badge, credentials, something that made her step aside immediately. "This way," the nurse said, her tone completely changed. They were led to a private waiting area-clearly reserved for VIPs. Or criminals powerful enough to buy privacy. Marco made several phone calls while Isla paced, unable to sit, unable to think about anything except Dante in surgery, fighting for his life. "Ms. Rivera," Marco said eventually, ending his call. "You should clean up. There's a private bathroom through there. I had someone bring clothes." Isla looked down at herself. She was covered in blood. Dante's blood. It was under her fingernails, dried on her hands, soaked into her clothes. "I can't," she whispered. "What if he-what if they come out and I'm not here?" "I'll get you if anything changes. I promise." Marco's voice was kind. "But you need to breathe. And you're scaring the other patients." She looked around. A few people in the regular waiting area were staring at her, eyes wide with fear. Right. She looked like she'd walked out of a horror movie. In the bathroom, Isla stripped off her bloodied clothes mechanically. She stood under the shower, watching red water swirl down the drain, and that's when it hit her. Dante could die. The man who'd kidnapped her, threatened her, turned her world upside down-the man she'd somehow fallen in love with-could die on an operating table, and she'd never get to tell him. Never get to say that somewhere between fear and fury, she'd found something she'd never expected. She'd found home. A sob tore from her throat. Then another. And suddenly she was sliding down the shower wall, crying so hard she couldn't breathe, hot water pounding down on her shoulders while she shook apart. She didn't know how long she sat there. Long enough for the water to run cold. Long enough for the tears to stop, leaving her hollow and empty. Finally, she forced herself up. Dried off. Put on the clothes Marco had left-simple black pants and a soft gray sweater that definitely weren't hers but fit well enough. Elena's, probably. When she emerged, Marco was standing outside the bathroom, his expression carefully neutral. "He's out of surgery," he said. Isla's heart stopped. "And?" "The bullet missed the major artery by millimeters. They got it out, stopped the bleeding, repaired the damage. He's alive." Marco's shoulders sagged with relief. "He's alive, and the doctor says he'll recover fully." Isla's knees gave out. Marco caught her, guided her to a chair. "Easy. When's the last time you ate?" "I don't... I can't remember." She looked up at him. "Can I see him?" "He's in recovery. Still sedated. But yeah, the doctor cleared you to sit with him." Marco hesitated. "Ms. Rivera... Isla. What you did tonight-running out into that gunfire for him-that was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid." "Both, probably." "He'd be dead if you hadn't warned him. That split second made the difference." Marco met her eyes. "So thank you. For saving my friend's life." "I love him," Isla heard herself say. The words hung in the air, too big and too true to take back. "God help me, I love him." Marco's expression softened. "He loves you too. He's never said it-Dante doesn't do feelings. But I've known him since we were kids, and I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you." "Like I'm going to destroy him?" "Like you're the only thing that could save him." A nurse appeared. "Ms. Rivera? You can see him now." Isla followed her through a maze of corridors to a private room. The machines beeped steadily, monitoring vitals. IV lines snaked into Dante's arm. He looked smaller somehow, vulnerable in the hospital bed, his usually olive skin pale against the white sheets. But he was breathing. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Isla sank into the chair beside his bed and took his hand in both of hers. His fingers were warmer now. That was good. That was something. "You're an idiot," she told him, even though he couldn't hear. "Taking a bullet for me. Didn't anyone ever tell you that self-sacrifice is bad for business?" His hand twitched in hers. "I'm furious with you," she continued, her voice breaking. "You could have died. You almost died. And I never got to tell you that I..." She took a shaky breath. "That I choose you. Not because you forced me. Not because I'm afraid. But because somewhere in this nightmare, you became the person I trust most in the world." "That's... a terrible idea." Isla's head snapped up. Dante's eyes were open-barely, just slits, but definitely open and focused on her. "You're awake," she breathed. "Unfortunately." His voice was rough, barely above a whisper. "Hospital food is terrible." A laugh bubbled out of her, half-sob. "You get shot and you're worried about the food?" "Priorities." He tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. "Luca?" "Got away. Along with most of the Moretti soldiers." She squeezed his hand. "But you're alive. That's what matters." "How many did we lose?" "Marco will fill you in when you're stronger. Right now, you need to rest." "Can't." His eyes fought to stay open. "War's coming. Luca won't stop. The Morettis..." "Will wait until you're recovered. Marco's already put out word that you're fine, that the ambush failed, that you're more dangerous than ever." She brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. "So rest, Dante. Let me handle the rest." "You don't know... how to run a war." "No. But I know how to run numbers. And wars cost money. I can make sure Luca's funding dries up." She leaned closer. "Trust me. The way I'm trusting you." Dante's eyes held hers for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Partners?" "Partners," she confirmed. "Even though I kidnapped you?" "Even though." She lifted his hand to her lips, pressed a kiss to his knuckles. "Now sleep before I drug you myself." "Bossy," he murmured, but his eyes were already closing. "Should've... known better... than to fall for..." His voice trailed off as sleep claimed him. But Isla heard the unfinished sentence anyway. Could hear it in the way his hand tightened briefly on hers before relaxing. She stayed there as night turned to dawn, watching him breathe, listening to the steady beep of the monitors, and planning her next move. Because Dante was right. War was coming. But Luca had made one critical mistake. He'd assumed that hurting Dante would break his organization. He hadn't counted on the woman who'd already broken through Dante's defenses becoming his fiercest protector. The accountant who saw patterns everywhere was about to become Luca's worst nightmare. Because while Dante fought with bullets and blood, Isla would fight with something more devastating. Information. And she already knew exactly where to strike.