Chapter 3: "When did you learn to shoot?"

Elena's POV

"The person we're looking for," I say, standing in Dante's office, "is whoever's doing the best right now. Out of everyone who helped frame your father."

Dante's sitting behind his desk, fingers tapping the wood. Steady rhythm, like he's counting seconds in his head.

"Keep going."

"The Moretti family's expanding into dock operations." I lean forward. "Same territory the Russo and Moretti families fought over back then. And there's this mysterious 'new partner' who keeps showing up."

All of this—I picked it up in my past life. Three years of being married to Dante, overhearing conversations, piecing things together while he pretended I didn't exist.

"How do you know this?"

"I did some digging." The lie comes easier than it should. "The Hart family has people at the docks too."

Dante watches me for a few seconds. Those gray eyes trying to catch me in something.

Then he picks up his phone.

"Check the Moretti family's recent dock activity. Focus on the new partner."

He hangs up and looks at me. "Two days."

"We should just go," I say. "I've seen the layout of that dock—"

I stop myself. Too late.

"You've seen it?" His voice drops into something dangerous.

Shit.

"I mean," I scramble, "the Hart family dock is right next to it. The layout's probably similar."

Dante doesn't look convinced.

But two days later, he takes me to the docks anyway.

We're dressed like workers—me in old jeans and a jacket, hair tucked under a cap. Dante's in coveralls, wearing a baseball cap pulled low. Nobody looks at us twice.

Dock workers coming and going, everyone focused on their own business. So getting inside the warehouse is easy.

The sun's already setting by the time we slip through the side entrance. Massive shipping containers stacked everywhere, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. I follow Dante, mimicking the way he moves—light steps, staying out of the security camera angles.

He's done this before. A lot. The way he navigates the space, it's like he's got a map in his head.

We find it in a corner behind three stacked containers—crates that shouldn't be here.

The markings are clear. AK-47s. Grenades. C4 explosives.

"This breaks the family agreement," Dante mutters, pulling out his phone to take pictures.

That's when I hear it. Footsteps. High heels clicking on concrete.

We duck behind a container.

A woman walks in—black suit, heels, briefcase in hand. Dark hair, dark eyes, the kind of presence that makes you pay attention whether you want to or not.

"Is the inventory done?" She's talking on her phone, voice sharp and professional. "Mr. Christopher needs exact numbers. The books have to be clean tonight."

Christopher.

The Moretti family's second son.

The real killer.

She hangs up and turns—

Her eyes land on us. On Dante, specifically.

"Russo?" She frowns. "What are you doing here?"

Dante steps out from behind the container like he planned this all along. "Showing my fiancée around the docks."

The woman's gaze slides over to me. Her mouth curves into something that's not quite a smile.

"Don't tell me you actually fell for the Hart girl."

"None of your business, Sofia."

Sofia.

I know that name. Dante mentioned her in my past life. Childhood friend, he'd said. Nothing more.

"Suit yourself." She shrugs. "But stay out of things that don't concern you. The Moretti family isn't someone you want to mess with right now."

She walks away, heels echoing in the empty space.

"Who is she?" I whisper once she's gone.

"Childhood friend. Works for the Morettis now." Dante's already moving, taking more photos of the weapons.

We're almost done when the warehouse door slams shut from the outside.

The sound echoes like a gunshot.

Dante sprints to the door, throws his weight against it.

Locked.

"Fuck."

Then I smell it. White vapor starting to hiss from the ventilation ducts.

I cover my nose and mouth. "That's poison!"

Dante's already moving, yanking off his jacket and tearing it into strips.

"Block the vents!"

We work fast, stuffing fabric into every duct we can reach. But the gas keeps coming. My head starts to feel light, disconnected from my body.

Dante's kicking the door now. Steel. It doesn't budge.

I force myself to move through the warehouse, vision swimming. My hands find a toolbox in the corner—inside, a crowbar.

"Dante!"

He grabs it, jams it into the door frame, and throws all his weight into it.

The metal screams.

Everything's getting blurry. The edges of my vision going dark.

Click.

The lock breaks.

We stumble out, gasping. Fresh air burns my lungs in the best way possible.

But we don't get to celebrate.

Three men with guns are blocking the exit.

"Mr. Russo," one of them says, voice cold and amused. "Mr. Christopher wants to see you."

Dante shoves me behind him.

"Get back, Elena."

"No—"

The first shot cracks through the air.

Dante pulls a gun from behind his back and fires. One of the men drops.

The other two start shooting back.

Bullets slam into the shipping containers, metal pinging and sparking. Dante hauls me behind cover, his hand tight around my wrist.

"Stay down!"

But one of them circles around. I see him before Dante does—gun aimed at Dante's back.

"Watch out!"

Dante spins, but he's not fast enough.

The bullet tears through his arm. Blood spreads across his sleeve instantly, dark and wet.

His backup gun hits the ground.

The man raises his weapon for another shot.

My brain shuts off. My body takes over.

I grab Dante's fallen gun. Point it at the man's leg. Pull the trigger.

Bang.

He screams and goes down.

The last guy freezes—probably didn't expect some rich girl to know which end of a gun to use.

Dante uses that second. Drops him with two shots.

Then silence. Just our ragged breathing and the ringing in my ears.

Dante turns to look at me. His expression is complicated. Studying.

"When did you learn to shoot?"

I freeze.

In my past life, I picked up bits and pieces watching Dante. Enough to handle a gun if I had to. But right now? I'm supposed to be some sheltered family princess who faints at the sight of blood.

"My dad taught me," I say, the lie scraping out. "He said girls need to know how to protect themselves."

Dante stares at me for a long time.

He doesn't believe me.

But he doesn't push it either.

"Come on," he says, taking my hand. His palm is warm against mine, sticky with blood from his wound. "We need to get out of here."

We disappear into the falling night.