Chapter 8
Dante Whitmore descended the stone stairs like an avenging demon. His crisp black shirt was torn and splattered with blood—none of it his own. His swept-back hair was disheveled, and his dark eyes burned with a terrifying, unholy fury. He held his heavy pistol in one hand, sweeping the dark cellar until he saw the scene playing out before the vault door.
Sabrina whipped her head around at the noise. Seeing Dante alive, panic seized her features. She wildly shifted her aim from Megan to Dante and pulled the trigger.
The suppressed gunshot was quiet, a mere pffft in the damp air, but the impact was devastating. Dante grunted violently as the bullet tore through his side, spinning him slightly. He stumbled, catching himself on the stone banister, but he didn't fall.
"Dante!" Megan screamed, sheer horror ripping through her throat.
Sabrina smiled triumphantly and racked the slide of her pistol to fire again. "I told you, Dante. If I can't have you—"
She never finished the sentence. Dante leveled his heavy pistol with lethal, unflinching precision. He didn't hesitate. He pulled the trigger twice.
The unsuppressed gunshots were deafening in the confined space of the cellar. Both bullets struck Sabrina square in the chest. The force of the impact threw her backward against the wine racks, sending dozens of expensive bottles crashing to the stone floor in a tidal wave of red wine and shattered glass. Sabrina collapsed lifelessly into the wreckage, her ruby earrings catching the dim light one last time.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of Felix crying and the dripping of wine from the broken racks.
Dante leaned heavily against the stone wall, his hand pressing tightly against his bleeding side. He holstered his weapon and slowly made his way down the remaining steps.
"Dante, oh god, you're shot," Megan sobbed, rushing forward and setting Felix down safely. She hovered her bandaged hands over his wound, afraid to touch him and cause him more pain.
"I'm fine," Dante gritted out, his jaw clenched tightly. He reached out with his uninjured arm, wrapping his large, tattooed hand around the back of her neck and pulling her against his chest. "Are you hurt? Did she touch you?"
"No, I stopped her," Megan cried, burying her face into his shoulder, inhaling the scent of smoke, gunpowder, and his sharp cologne. "But you're bleeding. We have to get a doctor."
"The fighting upstairs is over," Dante murmured, resting his chin on the top of her head. "My men broke the siege. Marcus Rowe is dead. It's finished, Megan."
Felix waddled over, tugging on Dante’s bloodstained trousers. "Papa owie."
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Dante smiled, a weak but genuine expression, and slowly dropped to one knee, wincing in pain. He pulled the toddler into his embrace, wrapping his other arm around Megan, holding his family tightly in the dark, wine-soaked cellar.
"Papa has an owie, buddy," Dante whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "But we're safe now. All of us."
