Chapter Five Luca Romano POV

The hallway echoed with footsteps, heavy, deliberate, too many to mistake for friends.

I pressed myself against the wall, hand already brushing the grip of my pistol, instincts sharpening like steel on stone. Every nerve in my body screamed, every muscle coiled for action. Behind me, Sienna froze, caught in the space between fear and defiance, the pulse in her throat hammering so fast I could hear it in my own chest.

Stay behind me. My voice was low, commanding, unyielding.

Her eyes flared, a storm of resistance, but she didn’t argue. Not this time.

I entered first, gun drawn, senses slicing through the tension like a blade. Two of my men slammed the doors shut behind me, sliding steel locks into place with a resonating clang that echoed down the hall. “They’re on the ground floor,” I said, breath clipped. Fifteen, maybe more. Armed heavy.

The Russians.

Of course it was them. They’d been sniffing at our borders for months, hunting for weakness, testing every angle. My father’s death had been their invitation. They couldn’t wait for business hours they wanted chaos now. I muttered under my breath as I loaded a fresh magazine, feeling the familiar calm wash over me. This was my world, and I had been forged for it.

Jory gave a grim smile, leaning casually against the wall like it was all just part of the evening. They never could resist a party.

I didn’t respond. There was no humor in this. Only calculation.

Then the first shots cracked from below, sharp and brutal, rattling the chandeliers and sending dust motes dancing in the air. Sienna flinched, and I noticed every detail her shoulders tightening, the way her hands curled into fists at her sides. She searched for me, eyes wide, desperate, pleading for comfort, explanation… safety.

Safety was a luxury I couldn’t afford to give her. Not in this world. Not tonight.

Basement exit? I asked Jory, scanning angles, calculating distance.

Blocked. They knew the layout. They had studied the building like they had studied me.

Then we push through. My words were barely above a growl as we advanced, moving like a storm descending.

We swept the stairwell with precision. Bullets ripped the air, a symphony of violence. My men fought with brutal efficiency, loyalty carved in blood binding them tighter than family. The Russians responded in kind, cursing in their guttural language, their silhouettes slicing through the haze of smoke and muzzle flash.

I felt alive in the chaos. Fire in my veins, death in my hands. This was my inheritance, forged into me since birth, each heartbeat synced to the rhythm of violence.

And then…Sienna.

Her scream tore through the din, a raw, human sound that cut straight into me. My head snapped toward her as a figure broke the line a Russian lunging with a blade aimed at her. Time slowed. Every calculation, every move, every second compressed into a single, unrelenting moment.

I pivoted, firing without hesitation. One clean shot, and the bastard collapsed at her feet, blood seeping across the marble like ink.

She stared at me, shaking, wide eyed, emotions tangled: horror, gratitude, fear, and the dawning realization that there was no turning back for either of us.

“You’re bleeding,” she whispered, voice cracking.

I glanced at my arm. A shallow graze. Nothing more. Not mine you should worry about, I said, though my teeth clenched slightly at the sting.

I caught her wrist and pulled her behind cover, shielding her with my body as another volley sent bullets chipping the walls around us. For a second, with her pressed so close, breath warm against my neck, I almost forgot the gunfire. Almost.

Every instinct screamed to protect, but part of me noted the way she held herself defiant, alive, unbroken even in terror. She wasn’t just surviving she was resisting. And that made her dangerous. To everyone, but especially to me.

We cleared the last of them, moving like shadows through the thick smoke and acrid scent of gunpowder. The penthouse reeked of death, but the fight was far from over. My men dragged bodies to the service elevator, erasing evidence with ruthless efficiency.

Jory wiped his blade on a dead man’s coat, expression grim. “They’ll be back,” he said, flat.

I didn’t need him to remind me. I could feel it in the vibrations of the building, in the distant echoes from the street below. Tonight had only been a test a warning.

Sienna’s voice broke the silence, soft but certain. “You saved me.”

I turned to her, meeting her gaze. Her eyes shimmered in the low light, glistening with relief, but the fear had shifted something rawer, sharper, and infinitely more dangerous now lived there.

Don’t mistake survival for salvation, I said, stepping closer, each movement deliberate, magnetic. You’re in this now, Sienna. Whether you want to be or not.

Her chin lifted, defiance threading through the tremor in her hands. “Then teach me how to survive.”

Her words, her gaze, the raw intensity they unnerved me more than any enemy. For the first time that night, it wasn’t the Russians, it wasn’t the bullets, it wasn’t the chaos that tested me. It was her.

I scanned the hallway, ears attuned to every creak, every whisper of movement. Shadows pressed in around the edges, shapes of men I couldn’t yet see. The Russians had learned quickly they weren’t just attacking. They were probing, testing, mapping our defenses. Every step forward from here would be deliberate, lethal, and precise.

I could feel Sienna’s warmth beside me, her pulse fluttering, and I knew I had to teach her. Not just how to survive the Russians, but how to survive in my world, in the storm I carried everywhere I went.

We moved again, silent but lethal, every gesture calculated. The penthouse became a maze of smoke, marble, and blood, each corner a potential deathtrap. I placed her behind cover, firing over her shoulder as my men advanced. The smell of gunpowder and sweat filled my lungs, and my pulse synced with the rhythm of survival.

One final sweep, one last clearing, and the room fell silent except for the distant wail of sirens, too late, too far.

I wiped my forehead, feeling the graze along my arm sting like a reminder of mortality. She glanced up at me, expression fierce and unflinching, and for a moment, I saw something I hadn’t expected a reflection of the storm in my own chest.

You’re not just surviving, I murmured. You’re learning.

Her lips quirked in the faintest smile, tired but unbroken. “Then don’t let me die before I master it.”

I allowed a small, fleeting smirk in return. For tonight, survival wasn’t just measured in lives preserved. It was measured in fire, in defiance, in the spark that refused to be snuffed out even in the shadows of war.

For the first time that night, I realized the Russians weren’t the only danger in this room.

It was her.