Dante Saves Her

Chapter 32: Dante Saves Her

The scent of blood clung to the air, thick and suffocating. Isla's breath came in short gasps as she pressed her trembling fingers against her wound, trying to stifle the bleeding. The pain was sharp, but it wasn't just physical—it was everything.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

She wasn't supposed to be the one bleeding out.

She had planned this. Orchestrated it. Set it all in motion.

Yet here she was, lying on the cold marble floor, watching Dante DeLuca—the man she had sworn to destroy—kill the very assassin meant to take her out.

No. Not me. Antonio.

Her vision blurred as she fought to stay conscious, her body sluggish from the loss of blood. But nothing could dull the raw energy in the room—the danger that crackled in the silence after the gunshot.

Dante stood over the assassin's body, his gun still raised, his breathing heavy. His expression was unreadable, his posture tense like a predator that had just torn apart its prey.

Then his dark gaze snapped to her.

She felt it in her bones—the possessiveness, the fury, the fear.

"Isla." His voice was sharp, but there was an edge to it. A tremor of something she couldn't name.

Before she could respond, he was at her side, sinking to his knees. He pressed his hands to her wound, applying pressure. She hissed, arching in pain.

"Stay still," he ordered, his voice strained.

She forced herself to meet his gaze. "You—" she swallowed, her throat dry, "you weren't supposed to get shot."

Dante's jaw clenched, his muscles tight with barely contained rage. "Neither were you."

She should have been relieved.

She should have felt victorious.

Antonio DeLuca had almost died tonight. Her father's murderer had nearly met his end.

But instead of satisfaction, all she felt was guilt.

Because the man who had just saved her life—the man who had killed for her—wasn't supposed to be her savior.

Dante was supposed to be her enemy.

And yet… she wanted him to save her.

---

The Kill

The assassin's body lay motionless a few feet away, blood pooling beneath him.

Dante's hand was still pressed against her wound, but his focus remained locked on the corpse, his expression cold and calculating.

"Who sent him?" Dante demanded.

She swallowed, struggling to keep her breathing even. She couldn't tell him the truth. Couldn't tell him that she had sent this man.

"I—I don't know," she whispered.

Dante's dark eyes flickered to her face, assessing her.

Lying to him was dangerous.

And for the first time, she wasn't sure if she could pull it off.

His thumb brushed against her skin—an absent-minded motion, but it made her breath hitch.

"You're lying," he murmured, his voice dangerously soft.

Panic flared in her chest.

She needed to redirect his suspicion—needed to make him focus on anything else.

"I—" she inhaled sharply, the pain making her lightheaded, "I don't care who sent him. I just want to stop bleeding."

Dante's expression darkened, but after a tense beat, he nodded.

He scooped her into his arms before she could protest, cradling her against his chest. The warmth of his body seeped into hers, his grip firm but careful.

"Hold on," he murmured as he carried her upstairs. "I've got you."

The worst part?

For the first time in years, she believed him.

---

The Aftermath

Dante laid her down on his bed, his movements tense with frustration.

His hands were steady as he grabbed a first aid kit and ripped open her blood-soaked blouse, exposing the wound.

His jaw ticked as he examined it. "It's not deep," he muttered, almost to himself. "You'll live."

His fingers grazed her skin as he pressed a cloth to her side, the heat of his touch making her shiver.

She should have been terrified.

She should have hated that he was touching her.

But all she felt was the unbearable pull toward him.

Her heart was racing—not just from the pain, but from him.

Dante DeLuca—the ruthless mafia heir, the man who had stolen her freedom, the man she was supposed to betray—was taking care of her.

And she didn't know how to handle it.

He worked in silence, his movements efficient. But his jaw was tight, his body rigid.

She could feel his anger simmering beneath the surface.

Not at her.

But at the fact that she had almost died.

She exhaled shakily. "You didn't have to save me."

Dante stilled.

Then his gaze locked onto hers, something unreadable flashing through his eyes.

"Yes, I did."

Her throat tightened.

She should have argued. Should have told him she didn't need him.

But she couldn't.

Because a part of her wanted to be saved.

A part of her wanted Dante DeLuca.

And that realization terrified her.

---

Possession

Dante bandaged her wound with careful precision, but his grip on her was firm—possessive.

As if he was afraid to let her go.

As if she belonged to him.

When he finished, he leaned back slightly, his gaze still burning into her.

"You're staying here," he said.

She frowned. "What?"

"You're not leaving," he clarified, his voice hard. "Not until I say so."

Anger flickered in her chest. "You can't just keep me here like some prisoner."

Dante's smirk was dark, dangerous. "I already have."

Her pulse quickened. "I—"

His fingers brushed her cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle.

"You drive me insane," he murmured. "And I don't trust you."

She swallowed, her skin tingling where he touched her.

"But I'll tell you one thing, Bella." His voice dropped lower, more intimate. "If anyone ever tries to take you from me again, I'll kill them."

A shiver ran down her spine.

This was wrong.

So wrong.

But she couldn't deny the way her body reacted to him, the way her breath hitched at his words.

Because for all her plans, for all her hatred—

A part of her wanted to belong to Dante DeLuca.

And that terrified her more than anything else.

---

A Dangerous Realization

Hours later, Isla lay awake in the darkened bedroom, her body still aching.

Dante was somewhere in the house, likely dealing with the aftermath of the assassination attempt.

She had been so close.

Antonio DeLuca should be dead.

But instead, she was in Dante's bed, wrapped in his possessiveness, his protection.

And she had let him save her.

What was she doing?

She had spent years plotting revenge.

And now, all it had taken was one moment—one touch—for everything to start unraveling.

She had seen it in his eyes.

Dante DeLuca—ruthless, brutal, unstoppable—was falling for her.

And worse?

She was falling for him, too.