Stolen: Dante’s Vow by Natasha Knight
Dante
Energy crackles around me. I’m ready. We all are. Ready for the kill.
The elevator doors slide open, and I look up at the camera, smiling wide. I flip my middle finger up. I want to be sure Petrov knows it was me who took her. I want him to have no doubt. And I want him to know I’ll be coming for him next.
Classical music comes from inside the penthouse. I wonder if that’s to make what’s going on inside seem civilized. Elegant even. I’m sure what’s happening to her is anything but. I hear laughter, glasses clinking together. Sounds like a fucking party. But I guess for them, it is.
It takes the two men standing just inside the suite a moment to stop staring at me and realize we’re not invited guests. It takes them another to register the weapons we’re carrying as my men fan out and the sound of silenced automatic rifles disrupts the classical music. Guns are drawn, bullets flying.
I shift my gaze to two of the guests standing by the window, drinks in hand just waiting their turn at her. Something about them, in particular, pisses me off. Maybe it’s their casual stance, their relaxed manner. Maybe it’s their pleased, smiling faces. Whatever it is, I veer off plan. I’m supposed to go straight to the bedroom. Grab her. Get out.
But I can’t.
Maybe it’s that I want their blood on my hands. Maybe it’s just that I like the kill.
Either way, tonight, they die.
For a moment I wonder if the sick fucks are father and son. They share that same weak chin. When the younger one sees me coming, his smile morphs into an expression of terror. Dad’s faster. His gun is in his hand, but not before I’ve taken aim between his eyes and pulled the trigger. His body jerks, the tumbler of whiskey slipping from his hand. Shattering against the polished hardwood floor.
The younger one looks in shock from me, to him, and back. He takes a step backward. I take one forward. Lowering my gun, I reach for the dagger at my hip. He opens his mouth to scream like a little girl when I push it into his gut and draw up with one swift tug of my hand.
The scream turns into a grunt or gurgle or some combination of both. His hands close around mine, body hunching forward as I give one more tug before shoving him backward and pulling my knife from his stomach. He’s down, bleeding out next to dear ole dad. I wipe the blade on his pant leg before replacing it in its holster. I should wash my hands.
But then I hear it. The muffled scream. Her scream.
And something pulls at me like I’m tuned into it. Into the girl who has become my obsession.
I turn toward the sound coming from behind a closed door, and for one moment, I can’t move. Just for a moment. Then I’m stalking toward what must be a bedroom.
She screams again, louder this time as I kick the door down surprising the soldier with the hard on. He’s watching the man looming over the slight woman on the bed. That man has got his pants down around his knees. I don’t waste time on the soldier. I just put a bullet between his eyes, and he drops instantly.
The man stumbles off the bed in a panic and I see her. For the first time in fifteen years, I see her.
It’s dark in here. Lights dimmed. Heavy curtains drawn shut.
But it’s her.
And again, for one moment, I’m transfixed.
She’s naked on the bed trying to hide herself. Of course, she’s naked. What did I think they’d be doing in here, playing cards? Her face is framed by long, white-blonde hair, her eyes shiny, bright and wide with terror.
“I fucking paid,” the man starts, forcing my attention away from her. Drawing it back to him. He’ll regret that in about one second because the rage inside me has become a living, breathing thing. The pulse a fire in my veins.
He’s finally got his flaccid dick back in his pants and is zipping them up.
“Petrov agreed I get to go first.”
“Is that right?” I ask, stepping toward the man who must be sixty. Fucking pervert. “Petrov’s not here, is he? But I’ll tell you what.” I cock my gun, step close enough the toes of my boots are touching the tips of his shoes. “You can go first. Straight to hell.” I raise the pistol just a little, just so it’s at the level of his dick, and pull the trigger.
He screams and so does she. She’s squirming away. She should.
“We gotta move,” Matthaeus says, touching his earpiece. “Soldiers are on their way.”
I drag my gaze from the pervert cupping the place his dick used to be and glance at her. Again, it’s like I’m struck. Paralyzed.
“Dante!” It’s Matthaeus.
I shake away the strange sensation and I see how his blood has splattered her face and hair like a stain. Like something foul on a clean thing. A pure thing. She’s wide-eyed, mouth open in a stunned O, holding a pillow up against herself to hide her nakedness.
I step closer to the man on the floor and set the bottom of my shoe over his bloody hands. I press. “How old are you?”
“What? Fuck. Fuck! It fucking hurts!” He sobs.
I crouch down, fist a handful of hair and tug to make him look at me. “How fucking old are you?”
“Sixty-two.”
“You’re old enough to be her fucking grandfather, bastard.”
“Petrov…he said…”
“Did you put your dick inside her?”
“What?”
“Did you put your wrinkled old dick inside her?”
He tries to shake his head. “No. No. I wanted to look... I… Petrov…”
I bring my gun to his gut and pull the trigger. I don’t want to hear another word from him.
A heavy hand falls on my shoulder. “Dante.”
I turn to look at Matthaeus, seeing her in my periphery when I do, feeling things I shouldn’t be fucking feeling, not here, not now.
“We have to move,” Matthaeus says urgently.
I step toward the girl but when she gets a glimpse of my face, she recoils. I stop, draw back into shadow. I should know better.
“Where are your clothes?” I ask, trying to soften my voice. It’s impossible. She’s terrified. I see it.
She points a trembling hand at a light green dress draped over the back of a chair. I grab it, hand it to her.
“Put it on. Hurry.”
She nods but is shaking too badly to actually get the dress on. From outside I hear the chopper.
“Sixty seconds before we have a dozen soldiers on us,” Matthaeus warns. “We’re cornered in here.”
I holster my weapon, take the dress from her, and pull it over her head. It’s baggy and long, a summer dress for a winter’s day. Without hesitating, I wrap an arm around her and hoist her over my shoulder. She lets out a yelp but we’re moving, Matthaeus and my men on my heels, out of the bedroom. We’re running to the door that will lead to the roof where the chopper is waiting.
Petrov’s soldiers are close. I hear their boots echo through the penthouse as I open the door and hand her to Matthaeus. He’ll get her on the chopper.
The door below opens, slamming against the wall as the last of my men get out. I see the first of Petrov’s soldiers and ignore Matthaeus’s shouts for me to get on the helicopter. I want to be sure my message gets to Petrov tonight. So, I shoot, taking out the first three before a bullet hits my arm. Searing pain slices through me. Memory takes me to a different place, a different time. I drop the door and just barely haul myself into the chopper as it lifts off, veering just out of range of their bullets.