SIGNAL

DANTE'S POV

Romano had contacted Emilio, demanding a meeting at his warehouse—a supposed peace talk. But Dante had been in this life long enough to know that when Romano invited you somewhere, it was never just a meeting.

Emilio told him everything. "He says he wants to make a deal... he'll release Ramon if I go."

Dante didn't like it. Not one bit. But Emilio insisted. And Dante, despite their fights—despite the silence between them these last few days—had shown up.

They planned it fast. Emilio would go with a few of his men, play along. Dante and his men would hide out around the warehouse, waiting for a signal. That was the plan.

But Dante couldn't wait.

Maybe it was the memory of Emilio's shaky voice over the phone the night Ramon was taken. Maybe it was the sound of desperation Dante hadn't heard in him before. Or maybe it was just that, no matter how angry he was, he couldn't stomach the thought of Emilio being hurt.

So he moved in.

They crept in like shadows. His men outnumbered Romano's guards, and before the signal ever came, 

Dante's people were already equalizing the perimeter. Blows were exchanged quietly, bodies dropped hard. When they finally breached the warehouse, chaos had already broken loose inside.

Gunshots cracked. Screams echoed against metal walls. Bullets zipped past as Dante ducked low, pressing behind crates. The air was thick—dust, gunpowder, tension.

And in the middle of it all, he saw Emilio. Not standing tall, but crouched beside a steel beam, face pale, hand gripping his gun like it might fly away.

Dante reached him.

"Stay down," Dante muttered, crouching beside him.

Emilio's eyes flicked to him, startled. He gave a stiff nod.

Dante's gaze swept across the room. Romano was slipping through the back, his men shielding him. Dante's jaw clenched. The coward started this war and was walking out untouched.

He started to rise, but movement caught his eye—Romano's man slipping into Emilio's corner. The bastard was aiming straight for him.

"Emilio!" Dante barked.

The younger man reacted just in time. He lunged, grappling for the gun. The two wrestled, crashing into crates and metal piping. Emilio used the small amount of training Dante had drilled into him—grabbing the attacker's wrist, trying to twist the gun away.

But the man was bigger. Stronger.

"Drop it!" Dante shouted, moving toward them.

The gun went off.

Dante felt it before he saw it—a burn tearing across his arm. Blood welled quickly. Pain bloomed, but he didn't stop. He rammed into the man, fists flying, rage surging.

He hit the man again. And again. Until the bastard stopped moving.

Emilio scrambled up and grabbed him. "Dante—your arm!"

Only then did he register the pain, sharp and radiating. His arm throbbed, warm blood trailing down to his wrist. He gritted his teeth.

"I'm fine," Dante muttered, eyes scanning for more threats.

"No, you're not," Emilio said, voice trembling as he pressed a cloth to the wound.

Their eyes met.

For a moment, all the gunfire, all the fighting, seemed to fade. Dante saw something raw in Emilio's face—worry, frustration, guilt.

"You weren't supposed to come in yet," Emilio whispered. "I didn't give the signal."

Dante just gave a breathless chuckle. "Didn't need one."

Emilio growled low under his breath and hissed, "Help me get him to the car!" to a nearby man. Together, they carefully moved Dante toward the black SUV parked near the exit.

Ramon and the others Romano had abducted were already being loaded into another vehicle by the rest of Emilio's men.

Once Dante was in the passenger seat, slumped with his head against the window, Emilio quickly slid in beside him and slammed the door. 

Rossi climbed into the driver's seat, glancing back through the mirror, eyes narrowing at Dante's pale face.

Emilio rummaged through the glove compartment, pulling out a clean white towel. Without a word, he placed it gently on Dante's arm, pressing it down to slow the bleeding.

Dante flinched but didn't stop him.

"You need a hospital," Emilio said, voice firmer now. "Rossi, take us to Saint Mar—"

"No," Dante cut in, hoarse. "Not the hospital."

Emilio stared at him. "You're bleeding through a towel. You need medication."

"I don't trust hospitals," Dante said through clenched teeth. "Take me home. I have a private doctor."

"You're unbelievable," Emilio muttered, adjusting the towel, his knuckles brushing Dante's. "I don't even know where you live."

Dante's jaw tightened. "Landon Street. The white house with black gates. Just get me there."

From the front seat, Rossi glanced at them through the rearview mirror. His brows furrowed as he caught the look Emilio gave Dante—the mix of frustration and fear. His eyes lingered a second too long before turning back to the road.

"Don't look at me like that," Dante said under his breath, sensing Emilio's stare.

"I'm not," Emilio muttered, but his hand pressed firmer over the wound. "I just—damn it. You didn't have to come like that."

Dante shifted in his seat, pain twisting his features, but his voice still found that arrogant edge. "You weren't this mouthy inside," he muttered, his head lolling slightly toward Emilio. "All shaking hands and wide eyes. Now look at you, barking orders like a boss."

Emilio narrowed his eyes. "You're delirious. Probably lost too much blood."

"I'm still sharp enough to know when someone's bluffing," Dante shot back, a half-smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "You were scared shitless."

"And yet I was still the one dragging your bleeding ass out of a warzone."

Dante chuckled low under his breath, then winced immediately.

Rossi stole another glance through the mirror, his curiosity practically screaming now. Emilio noticed and snapped, "Eyes on the road."

Dante raised an eyebrow, amused despite the ache in his arm. "That boss voice again," he said under his breath, turning his head slowly to look at Emilio. "Who knew you had it in you."

Emilio looked straight ahead, his lips thinning. "Shut up. Just...shut up."

Dante tilted his head, watching him carefully. "You care," he said, and it wasn't mocking this time—it was quiet, almost surprised.

Emilio didn't answer. He just kept holding the towel over Dante's wound, his fingers trembling slightly.

The SUV rolled through the city streets, the silence stretched and heavy, only broken by the soft groan Dante let out when the pain surged again.

"Don't die on me now, King," Emilio said, half-heartedly trying to sound annoyed. "I still owe you a punch for storming in."

Dante gave a weak smirk. "Make it a left hook. My right side's already ruined."

Despite everything, Emilio let out a low, tired laugh—and kept pressing the towel tighter.