Chapter 8 - Dante's Last Enemy Kidnapped My Dog to Break Me—But He Forgot I Had Spent My Entire Life Handling Dangerous AnimalsThe coordinates led to an abandoned horse ranch forty miles west of Portland.
Appropriate.
I almost admired Adrian’s sense of irony.
The property sat at the end of a dirt road surrounded by forest.
I parked where instructed.
No federal vehicles followed.
Not visibly.
That had been my condition.
Adrian expected surveillance.
Evelyn had people positioned miles away using thermal drones.
Marco hated everything about the plan.
I wore a microphone beneath my shirt.
A tracking device was hidden inside my boot.
And inside my medical bag was a dart syringe containing a sedative dose carefully calculated for a human approximately Adrian’s size.
Was that medically appropriate?
Absolutely not.
Was kidnapping my dog appropriate?
Also no.
I entered the barn.
“Thor?”
A bark answered.
Relief nearly knocked me down.
He was inside a kennel.
Alive.
Uninjured.
Adrian Cole stepped from behind a support beam.
He looked exactly like his photographs.
Fifty.
Silver at the temples.
Expensive jacket.
The face of a man who belonged in boardrooms, not barns.
“You came.”
“You have my dog.”
“I expected Romano’s people.”
“They’re not my people.”
“Not yet.”
I hated the implication.
“I brought the key.”
His eyes moved to the bag.
“Show me.”
I opened the case.
Inside was a flash drive.
Fake.
Again.
Apparently my life had become heavily dependent on fake flash drives.
“Release Thor.”
“No.”
“You said—”
“I said bring the key.”
“I did.”
“First I verify it.”
He stepped closer.
I watched his hands.
No visible gun.
That meant nothing.
“You killed my father.”
Adrian smiled faintly.
“Vincent ordered it.”
“You participated.”
“Yes.”
The casual admission nearly shattered my composure.
“Why?”
“Because Rafael Santos believed truth was more powerful than money.”
“He was right.”
“No.”
Adrian stepped closer.
“He died.”
I wanted to hit him.
Instead, I breathed.
Dad had taught me that too.
When an animal panics, you do not match its fear.
You become calmer.
“You hate Dante.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He destroyed an empire.”
“An empire built on dead people.”
“Every empire is.”
“That sounds like something cowards tell themselves.”
His face tightened.
Good.
“Dante had everything,” Adrian said. “Power. Loyalty. Wealth. And he threw it away because he suddenly developed a conscience.”
“No.”
I looked directly at him.
“He threw it away because men like you mistook cruelty for strength.”
His hand moved.
Gun.
I expected it.
He pointed it at me.
“Bag.”
I set it down.
“Kick it over.”
I did.
He crouched.
Opened it.
That was his mistake.
The sedative syringe was hidden beneath the lining.
But I needed closer range.
Thor growled.
Adrian looked toward him.
I moved.
My hand went inside my jacket.
Adrian swung the gun toward me.
Thor exploded against the kennel door.
The latch broke.
I had deliberately noticed it when I entered.
Old metal.
Weak hinge.
Thor hit Adrian.
The gun fired.
The bullet struck the ceiling.
I lunged.
The syringe entered Adrian’s thigh.
I pushed the plunger.
He hit me.
Hard.
Pain exploded across my face.
I fell.
Thor bit his sleeve.
Adrian kicked him away.
“Thor!”
My dog hit the ground.
Adrian aimed at him.
I grabbed the nearest thing.
A shovel.
I swung.
It connected with Adrian’s wrist.
The gun flew.
He turned toward me.
“You—”
His knees buckled.
The sedative was working.
Not fast enough.
He grabbed my throat.
I slammed backward against the wall.
Stars exploded in my vision.
“You stupid—”
His grip weakened.
I drove my knee upward.
He stumbled.
Then collapsed.
I fell beside him gasping.
Thor crawled toward me.
“Baby.”
I wrapped my arms around him.
He was limping.
But alive.
Sirens came closer.
Federal agents entered minutes later.
Adrian Cole was arrested unconscious.
Marco arrived immediately afterward.
He saw me.
Saw Thor.
Saw Adrian.
Then stared at the syringe.
“What did you give him?”
“Veterinary sedative.”
“Is he going to die?”
“No.”
A pause.
“Probably.”
Marco’s eyes widened.
“I’m joking.”
He closed his eyes.
“Dante is going to marry you.”
I froze.
“What?”
“I said nothing.”
“You absolutely did.”
He walked away.
Thor had a sprained shoulder.
I had bruising around my throat and a fractured finger.
Adrian had a terrible headache and multiple federal charges.
I considered the outcome acceptable.
The story reached Dante before I could call.
Prisons, I discovered, had surprisingly efficient gossip networks when federal agents were involved.
His call came the following afternoon.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
No hello.
I smiled.
“Nice to hear your voice too.”
“You went alone?”
“Technically there were federal agents nearby.”
“Two miles away!”
“You heard details.”
“Marco called me.”
“Traitor.”
“Isabella.”
His voice cracked.
I stopped smiling.
“You could have died.”
“I didn’t.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“I know.”
Silence.
Then he said something I did not expect.
“I’m angry because I was helpless.”
I sat down.
“Dante.”
“I spent my whole life believing power meant being able to control every outcome.”
His breathing was unsteady.
“Then I met you.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“You taught me something worse.”
“What?”
“That loving someone means accepting you cannot control whether they get hurt.”
My eyes burned.
“You’re learning.”
“I hate it.”
“I know.”
“I hate that you went.”
“I know.”
“I’m proud of you.”
That one broke me.
I covered my mouth.
Dante continued.
“And terrified. And furious. Apparently these emotions can coexist.”
“Welcome to adulthood.”
He laughed weakly.
“How is Thor?”
“Sprained shoulder.”
“You?”
“Fractured finger.”
“Which one?”
“Left ring finger.”
A pause.
“That seems symbolic.”
“Don’t get ambitious.”
“I’m in federal prison, Isabella. Ambition is currently limited.”
I laughed.
Then silence settled.
Not uncomfortable.
Intimate.
“When do you get out?” I asked.
“Good behavior and cooperation?”
“Yes.”
“Seven months.”
Seven months.
After almost two years, seven months sounded like tomorrow.
“I’m not waiting,” I said.
“I know.”
“I’m living.”
“I know.”
“But Dante?”
“Yes?”
“I’d like you to come home when you’re done.”
Silence.
Long enough that I thought the call had dropped.
Then:
“Home where?”
My throat tightened.
I looked through the clinic window.
Sophia was helping an elderly woman carry a cat carrier.
Thor lay beneath my desk.
Sunlight crossed the floor.
“My clinic.”
I smiled.
“My terrible coffee.”
“My defective pans.”
“Your favorite dog.”
“And you?”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
May you like
His voice became almost a whisper.
“Then I’ll come home.”
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