Chapter 5- We're Not Damsels
“Girls,” I said, eyes locked on the groaning man clutching his ribs, “we’re no fucking damsels.”
Julia wiped smeared lip gloss from the corner of her mouth and nodded, fire lighting in her eyes.
Camila cracked her knuckles. “Say less.”
Rosetta stepped forward, her eyes narrowing as the remaining men circled, stunned and still cocky enough to think we were done.
Big mistake.
The music hadn’t stopped—Dua Lipa still blared overhead, strobe lights flashing across broken glass and spilled drinks. It was like we’d stepped into a music video—if the video had blood, stilettos, and righteous fury.
One of the men surged forward, teeth bared. Julia ducked—graceful as hell—and Camila moved behind her, grabbing Julia by the waist and lifting her mid-air.
“Get ready to fly!” Camila shouted.
Julia’s leg struck out mid-spin, hitting the man in the side of the head. He dropped like someone unplugged him from the wall.
The crowd screamed.
Rosetta sidestepped another brute’s grasp and smirked, eyes gleaming. “Come on, boy. Show me what you’ve got.”
He charged.
She danced aside, then slammed her heel down on his foot, grabbed the back of his neck, and twisted—throwing him flat on his back with a grunt that sounded more wounded pride than pain.
“Not bad for heels, huh?” she purred.
Behind them, Alessandro was a blur of violence and precision—silent and terrifying. Another man reached for a weapon. Alessandro disarmed him with a wrist lock so brutal I heard a snap. He didn’t just disable—he demolished. No wasted motion. No hesitation.
One of the attackers tried to crawl away.
“Move again,” Alessandro growled, low and lethal, “and I’ll make you crawl with your teeth.”
The man whimpered, slumping into the sticky floor.
My heart pounded like war drums in my chest. I was standing in the center of a battlefield—and for once, I didn’t feel like prey.
I felt alive.
Powerful.
The crowd parted around us, no longer cheering but watching in awe and fear. The music distorted in my ears, like sound underwater, and time slowed—just for a moment—as Alessandro raised a black matte pistol and pointed it directly at the groaning pile of men.
His face didn’t even flinch.
Neither did I.
And then he turned to me.
Our eyes locked. His gaze scanned my body—fast, clinical, checking for blood, bruises, signs of trauma. But I was fine.
He didn’t speak, but I read the question in his eyes: Are you okay?
I rolled my eyes.
Typical. Runs over like some dark knight, saves the day, and thinks I’m about to swoon.
“Let’s go,” I said to the girls, stepping over one of the fallen men.
Julia adjusted her skirt like nothing happened. “I’m stealing that lift move, by the way.”
Camila beamed. “Anytime, baby.”
Rosetta blew a kiss at the man still groaning on the ground. “Hope that bruises, sweetie.”
We strutted out of the club like we owned the world. Heads turned, jaws dropped. The bouncers—who had conveniently disappeared during the chaos—watched with wide eyes. I gave them a look that made them step aside without a word.
Alessandro followed behind, steps silent but unmistakable.
“Did anyone else notice how hot he looked with that gun?” Julia whispered, glancing back at him like he was made of sin and steel.
“Oh, I noticed,” Camila said. “The way he moved? Ugh. I need a cigarette and I don’t even smoke.”
Rosetta sighed dreamily. “When he grabbed that guy’s wrist—Lord have mercy. My ovaries just clapped.”
I groaned. “Seriously?”
“Don’t act like you didn’t see it too,” Julia teased. “That man is danger wrapped in muscles.”
“He’s a walking felony,” Rosetta added. “And I’d still swipe right.”
“Enough,” I snapped, stopping outside the club as their car pulled up.
They were still laughing, still high on adrenaline and tequila and the strange, undeniable thrill of almost dying but surviving together.
I hugged each of them tight. They piled into the car, still talking over each other, waving out the windows, already planning brunch and revenge outfits for our next girls' night.
The car pulled away.
And I was alone.
Or... not quite.
I turned toward my car.
He was there.
Leaning casually beside the passenger door, arms crossed, unreadable as ever. His jaw was clenched. His eyes—those dark, bottomless eyes—studied me like I was a puzzle he couldn’t solve and hated not solving.
I approached, heels clicking against the concrete like a drumroll.
“Look,” I said, staring straight into his blue eyes. “Before you give me some lecture about safety or gratitude or how I should stay inside like a good little girl—don’t.”
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
Typical.
I stepped closer, until we were barely inches apart.
And then I raised my hand and spread my fingers.
“All ten,” I said sharply. “Pretty. Functional. Not broken. No thanks to you.”
His brow furrowed slightly.
“I’m sure you saw it yourself,” I continued, voice steel-wrapped silk. “I don’t need a fucking protector. I’m good on my own.”
I dropped my hand and opened the car door.
“Stay out of my way, Alessandro.”
And I got in.
I slammed the door shut, hands trembling only slightly as he opened the passenger’s door and quietly slid into the car.
Asshole.
The driver started the car and drove us out of the club after the chaotic night we just had.
Alessandro sat beside me unmoving like some immortal statue carved from smoke and vengeance.
I spared him a glance and the sight of him beside me made my insides boil. Who did he think he is? He thinks I need him following me around like a shadow?
He thinks I'm a fucking princess?
My head raged with thoughts but only one stood out.
‘You have to send him away.’
You have to.