Chapter 8 - The Price of Power
Dante was not a man; he was an executioner.
His suit was torn, drenched in rain and blood that clearly did not belong to him. His eyes burned with an animalistic fury so intense that the remaining two hitmen froze in sheer terror.
Before they could raise their weapons, Dante fired twice.
Two hollow-point rounds took the first man in the forehead, dropping him instantly. Dante closed the distance, grabbing the second man by the throat, slamming him into the concrete wall with enough force to crack the foundation, and emptied three rounds into his chest at point-blank range.
The corridor went deathly silent, save for the wet, choking sounds of Matteo drowning on his own blood on the floor.
Dante dropped his empty weapon. He didn't spare his dying cousin a second glance. He walked over Matteo’s thrashing body and fell to his knees in front of me.
“Sophia!”
His hands were trembling violently as he reached for me, checking my head, my shoulders, his fingers frantic. “Look at me! Look at me, *piccola*! Did he touch you? Did he hurt you?”
“Dante,” I sobbed, clutching his soaked shirt, my fingers digging into the muscle of his arms. “The baby... the baby is coming. My water broke!”
Another contraction hit me—violent, tearing, and unstoppable. A scream tore from my throat as I curled forward against his chest.
Dante swept me into his arms, lifting me with terrifying speed. “Hold on to me, Sophia. Just hold on!”
He carried me out of the basement, his boots splashing through the carnage of the lower level. Outside in the main foyer, twenty of Dante’s elite soldiers were sweeping the halls, securing the dead, their weapons drawn.
“Clear the medical wing!” Dante bellowed, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings like thunder. “Get Weber! Get Rossi! If she is not on that table in two minutes, I’ll kill every doctor on this estate!”
“Dante... it hurts,” I wept into his neck, the world spinning around me in flashes of pain and adrenaline. “It hurts so much!”
“I know, my love. I know,” he whispered, his voice cracking with an emotion I had never heard from him before. Fear. Pure, unadulterated terror. “I have you. You’re safe. You’re home.”
He kicked open the doors of the private surgical suite. Dr. Weber and two nurses were already waiting, their faces pale but professional, clad in sterile scrubs.
“Put her on the table! Now!” Dr. Weber commanded, guiding Dante toward the delivery bed.
Dante laid me down gently, but when the nurses tried to pull him back to scrub in, he shoved them away with a feral snarl.
“I’m not leaving her!” he roared.
“Dante, you’re covered in blood and contaminants!” Dr. Weber shouted back, refusing to back down. “You will give your daughter an infection! Put on a sterile gown and gloves, or get out!”
The reality of the doctor's words cut through his rage. Dante swallowed hard, nodding once. Within thirty seconds, a nurse had thrown a sterile gown over his frame and snapped surgical gloves over his blood-stained hands.
He rushed back to my side, grabbing my hand, his face hovering inches from mine.
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“Look at me, Sophia,” he pleaded, his dark hair falling across his forehead, his eyes wild with devotion. “Don’t look at the machines. Look at me. Breathe with me.”
***
