Chapter 4 - The Vipers Strike
The peace was a lie. Julian Crowe was not a man who walked away from a bargain, especially not one that involved his ego. He launched a smear campaign against Dante, painting our escape as a kidnapping, while simultaneously pressuring the local authorities to label me a missing person.
Then came the night the power went out.
We were in the middle of a dinner, the rain lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows, when the alarms finally shrieked. "Get to the panic room," Dante ordered, his face shifting into the mask of the man they called 'The Butcher of Chicago.'
I refused. I grabbed the small, concealed pistol he had taught me to use in the target range behind the estate. When the intruders breached the library, I didn't hide. I stood behind Dante, a tactical partner rather than a prize. We fought our way through the dark, a dance of choreographed violence. I saw a man lunging for Dante’s blind side and fired without hesitation, the bullet hitting its mark.
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In the aftermath, amidst the shattered glass and the smell of gunpowder, Dante grabbed my face, his hands shaking slightly—not from fear, but from the terrifying realization that I had risked my life for him. "You shouldn't have," he whispered.
"I’m done being the victim, Dante," I replied, my voice steady. "I’m done being the asset."
