Chapter 5 Cold Royalty, Hard Steel
~Sera's POV~
Tires screamed.
Dante wrenched the wheel hard left, whipping the Charger off the main road and onto the private service lane. Gravel pelted the wheel wells as he slammed the brakes.
SCREEECH.
The bumper stopped an inch off the iron gate. The V8 rattled the floorboards beneath my boots, a low, predatory hum vibrating right up through my shins.
Dante didn't look at me right away.
He shifted into park, draped an arm over the steering wheel, and turned his head slow.
His gaze was heavy, pinning me against the passenger seat before he even spoke a word. The dim dash light caught the sharp angle of his jaw, highlighting the thin white scar slicing through his stubble.
"Sera," his voice scraped low.
"You wanted a front-row seat to the syndicate? You're looking at it. Out here, outside your mother's five-million-dollar glass cage, nobody cares about your designer jackets or your burner phones."
My hands rested loose on my thighs. My fingers tapped a quiet, steady rhythm against my denim.
"Is that your pitch, Moretti?"
My voice stayed flat, cold, sharp enough to cut.
"You bring me to an empty gravel lot to give me a bedtime story about how scary your last name is?"
His jaw locked. A muscle ticked under his skin.
He unbuckled, the metal latch snapping in the cramped cabin, and leaned across the center console until his chest was inches from mine. The scent of rain, cedar, and gunpowder flooded my space.
"You think you're untouchable because you hacked a low-level server node and bled on my shirt," he spat, dark eyes locked on my pupils.
"Out here, girls like you get chewed up and spit into the harbor before morning. One word from me and my guys throw you in a trunk where nobody ever finds the body."
I tilted my chin up.
"Try it," I whispered, my breath hot against his lips, tasting of iron.
"Go ahead, Dante. Call your enforcers back. Tell them to put me in a box. Because the second you do, every encrypted ledger, every offshore bank account, and every smuggling route the Moretti family owns drops straight onto the federal wire. You won't kill me. You're terrified of what I'll take down with me."
A thick vein throbbed along his jaw.
His hand shot out.
Fingers clamped around my throat, driving my head back hard against the leather headrest. The impact knocked the air straight out of my chest in a sharp gasp.
I didn't flinch. My hands flew up, fingers digging into the meat of his thumb, nails biting deep into his skin until the muscle twitched.
"Quiet down, brat," he growled, a heavy knee pressing against my thigh, trapping me against the door panel.
"You talk just enough to prove you've got no cards left," I fired back, my split lip stinging with every syllable as I drove my heel into the rubber floor mat for leverage.
I twisted my upper body, jamming my elbow straight into his ribs. Dante pulled back half an inch, his lungs pulling in a sharp rasp.
I didn't wait.
I drove my palm upward, cracking his wrist off my collar, and lunged right back into his space. I grabbed his jacket lapels, dragging him down until our foreheads almost touched.
We sat chest to chest in the dark cabin, breathing the same cold air, neither giving an inch.
Two minutes passed before he pulled back, shoved the gear shift into drive, and hit the gas.
Three hours later, the Charger sat outside the underground entrance to the campus combat annex.
The rain settled into a thin, cold mist by three in the morning.
I left Dante idling in the car, headed straight down to the basement lockers to clear my head and stash my gear before sunrise.
I slammed my metal door shut. It echoed off the concrete walls, ringing in the empty aisle.
Click.
The heavy steel door latch fell into place.
I unlaced my combat boots, the heavy stench of cheap cologne and damp sweat filling the narrow aisle.
"Lost your shadow, new girl?"
Marcus stepped out from behind the end row of basement lockers, a faded leather jacket swishing, his thumb resting flat against the grip of a switchblade.
Two lower-level thugs blocked the aisle behind him, shadows stretching across the yellow metal.
"Dante's not here to protect his little mascot," Marcus sneered, taking two steps forward. The blade flashed under the dim bulb. "Word on campus is you've got Moretti network codes on a drive. The Valentis pay good money for syndicate keys."
I stood up slowly, unbuckled my heavy leather belt, and looped the strap twice over my knuckles, letting the iron buckle hang loose.
Cold leather bit into my palm as I shifted my weight forward.
"You're too close," I said, my voice dead.
Marcus grinned. "Or what?"
My right foot drove straight into his kneecap.
CRACK.
His joint buckled backward.
Marcus shrieked, dropping as his switchblade skittered across the wet tile. Before he could hit the floor, I whipped the belt, wrapping the iron buckle straight across his jaw. Blood and teeth sprayed the yellow basement lockers.
The thug on the left lunged with a tire iron.
I stepped inside his reach, hooked my elbow behind his triceps, and smashed his face down onto the sharp wooden corner of the locker bench. The wood cracked; his body dropped limp.
The third guy looked at Marcus choking on his blood, scrambled for the back exit, and bolted into the dark, empty corridor.
I pinned Marcus’s forehead to the concrete with my heel, pressing down on his shattered knee until he choked.
"Tell the Valentis," I whispered, "the next person they send won't leave with their knees intact."
I grabbed my gear bag, my pulse steady, the raw taste of blood heavy on my tongue.
Before I reached the exit, a heavy crash echoed down the hall.
Dante kicked open the heavy steel door, his hand already wrapped around the handle of my gun.
