Chapter 8 - The Aftermath
The silence that followed the gunfire was heavier than the war itself.
Down in the panic room, the heavy steel door finally rattled.
Three slow knocks. Two fast ones.
Elena leaped to her feet, throwing the deadbolt and pulling the heavy steel door open.
Marcus stood in the doorway, bleeding from a graze on his shoulder, looking exhausted. Behind him, the grand foyer was a smoking ruin, broken glass and plaster covering the floor.
"Is he... is he alive?" Elena gasped, her voice trembling.
"He's alive," Marcus panted, wiping soot from his forehead. "Vincenzo Rossi is dead. The rest of them fled into the trees when they realized the boss wasn't going down. But... he's hurt, Elena. Badly."
Elena didn't think twice. She handed sleeping Matteo to Marisol, grabbed a first-aid kit from the bunker shelf, and sprinted up the stairs toward Daario’s private study.
The door to the study was half-off its hinges.
Daario sat in his high-backed leather chair, his shirt torn open at the shoulder, blood soaking through a makeshift tourniquet he had tied around his upper arm. He was breathing heavily, his face pale, but his dark eyes were still razor-sharp.
Elena dropped to her knees beside him without a word.
"You're an idiot," Elena muttered angrily as she ripped open antiseptic wipes and tore open gauze pads, her hands shaking as she went to work on his wound. "A reckless, arrogant idiot."
Daario winced slightly as the alcohol touched the torn flesh, but a faint, ghost-like smile touched the corners of his lips. "And you are a terrible employee, Elena. You're supposed to stay in the bunker."
"Somebody had to patch up your bullet holes," she snapped back, her voice thick with unshed tears. She worked with surprising skill, wrapping the gauze tight around his shoulder to stem the bleeding. "Why did you do it? You didn't even know us. You could have handed us over to Vincenzo and saved yourself all of this."
Daario looked down at her. The harsh light of the desk lamp caught the silver scars crisscrossing his skin—the map of a life built on violence and isolation.
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"For fifteen years," Daario said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, "this house was a museum of ghosts. I built walls so high nothing could touch me. And then a baby walked into my boardroom, grabbed my lapel, and reminded me what it felt like to be human."
Elena stopped wrapping the bandage, her hands resting gently against his chest. She looked up into his dark, weary eyes and saw the truth of his words.
