Chapter 5 - The Aftermath of Chaos
The courtyard was lit by the flashing red and blue lights of private security vehicles, though the police would never be called. In the underworld, internal matters were settled in the dark.
Two bound and bruised intruders were dragged out toward the black vans parked beyond the gates, whimpering as the massive dogs stood guard over them, teeth bared and hackles raised.
Dante Vance stepped out of a sleek black sedan that had pulled into the courtyard moments after his private jet touched down. His face was a mask of cold, terrifying fury. He had received the emergency encrypted call mid-flight: an infiltration attempt at the main estate.
He strode across the cobblestones, his eyes scanning the damage until they landed on Grace.
She was sitting on a wooden bench near the kitchen entrance, her coat smudged with soot and dust, her hands trembling slightly as she clutched a mug of lukewarm tea. Her hair was completely undone, tumbling in wild, dark waves around her shoulders.
Dante stopped directly in front of her. The air between them was thick with tension. He didn't look at the bound men being loaded into the vans; his gaze was locked entirely on Grace.
"Are you hurt?" Dante asked, his voice raw, stripped of its usual polished composure.
Grace looked up, meeting his piercing, ice-blue eyes. For a moment, the fierce courage that had driven her to hurl a cast-iron skillet at an armed mercenary wavered, replaced by the crushing weight of what had just happened.
"I'm not hurt," Grace whispered, her voice shaking slightly. "Just... my apron is ruined. It was my favorite one."
A sound escaped Dante’s throat—a low, incredulous breath that might have been a laugh if it hadn't been choked by overwhelming relief. He reached out, his large, scarred hand—a hand that had signed death warrants and ended empires—hovering for a fraction of a second before gently brushing a smudge of soot from her cheek.
His touch was feather-light, burning her skin like a live wire.
"You threw a skillet at an armed mercenary," Dante said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register that only she could hear. "You saved my estate. More importantly, you saved my dogs."
"They would have died for me," Grace said simply, looking over at Brutus, who was sitting proudly at her knee like a loyal knight. "The least I could do was return the favor."
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Dante stared at her, the rigid walls around his heart finally cracking and crumbling away into dust. He realized then, with terrifying clarity, that this curvy, fierce, gentle-souled woman had completely conquered a fortress that an army could not take.
"Come inside, Grace," Dante said softly, offering her his hand. "You're done cooking for tonight. Let me take care of you for a change."
