C135 Like A Freight Train

Mikhail stood his ground, even though his body was taut with tension as Dante approached.

The weight of Dante's gaze was crushing, and each step he took exuded the lethal energy of a predator closing in on its prey.

The men around them, seasoned in violence and survival, fell silent, sensing the storm brewing.

The gravel crunched beneath Dante’s shoes, a sound that seemed deafening in the oppressive silence.

Mikhail’s fingers itched toward his gun, his instincts screaming at him to be ready, even though he knew it would be suicidal.

Dante stopped just a few feet away, his dark eyes raking over the scene, lingering briefly on Mikhail, then shifting to Annabelle.

The flowers in Mikhail’s hand suddenly felt like an absurdity

Like a fragile and meaningless gesture in the face of Dante’s wrath.

He hated the sudden sense of guilt battering him.

“What the fuck had he done wrong?” Mikhail cursed himself internally but refused to look away.

Dante’s lips curled into a cruel smile even while still looking at the flower like an offensive alien.

“I had no idea you were such a sucker for flowers, Mia Bella,” he drawled, his voice carrying a razor-sharp edge. “I would have come with a truckload.”

Mikhail barely had time to process the words before Dante stepped forward and yanked Annabelle to him, his movements fluid and commanding.

Without hesitation, he crushed his lips to hers, his hand gripping her waist possessively while his other hand roamed her back until it firmly gripped her ass grinding her into his taut front.

The kiss was harsh, a branding for all to witness.

A fucking public declaration of ownership.

Mikhail’s chest burned with fury, his pulse pounding in his ears.

Especially when Annabelle started struggling in Dante’s hold with her hands pushing against his chest and her muffled protests lost in the display of dominance.

Mikhail’s feet shifted forward before his brain could catch up as the ultimate urge to pull her away from Dante overpowered his reason.

“Don’t,” Sal’s voice hissed low behind him. “Don’t make this worse.”

Mikhail clenched his jaw as he understood Sal's.

The fury in him mounted as he tore his gaze away from Annabelle squirming.

He could see her discomfort, her attempts to break free, but Dante held her fast almost as if he couldn't feel her reluctance at all.

Mikhail bet he was entirely aware of her resistance.

He just wanted to make his statement and he was making it alright.

When Dante finally released her, it was abrupt, as if realising for the first time that she wasn’t melting into his embrace but fighting it.

Annabelle stumbled back, her hand already raised.

The sharp sound of her slap didn’t come, though.

Dante caught her wrist mid-air, his grip like iron.

His eyes darkened further and his voice chilling as he murmured, “What did I tell you the last time?”

Annabelle’s chest heaved, her defiance sparking like fire in her eyes.

“As if I’d listen to anything you say!” she snapped, her voice trembling with fury.

She turned sharply, her focus on the line of cars still idling in the driveway, and marched toward them as if the men forming a wall around the vehicles didn’t exist.

He knew if she wasn't so angry she would have seen the foolishness in what he thought she had in mind.

“Annabelle,” Mikhail called, his tone firm but laced with concern.

“Don’t you fucking say her name,” Dante growled, his voice cutting through the air like a whip.

His head turned toward Mikhail, his glare filled with deadly intent.

“She’s not an object. She can decide for herself,” Mikhail retorted, his frustration spilling over despite Sal’s warning.

Dante’s lips curved into a chilling smile. “Oh?” he said, his tone deceptively calm. “It seems you know something I don’t.”

Dante stepped closer, the menace in his posture making Mikhail’s gut twist. “Come,” he continued, his voice low but commanding. “I need you to tell me more.”

Behind them, Dante’s men blocked Annabelle's path to the car she wanted to jump into.

Angelo stepped forward, his massive frame blocking Annabelle as she turned away from the wall of men and tried to push past him. “Be reasonable, Miss Whitaker,” Angelo said, his tone a mix of patience and authority.

“I’m not staying here one more minute!” Annabelle shouted, her voice cracking as she planted her feet.

But Angelo didn’t wait for her to comply.

As if she didn't just talk, Dante looked towards them and said, Take her to my suite. I need to have a chat with…” the look he gave Mikhail could freeze a mountain as he completed in an almost moving tone, “...my brother here.”

Of course, the cruel bastard would choose right now to call him a brother.

Mikhail thought in August as that stupid guilt rose in him again.

Angelo tried to reason with Annabelle but she planted her feet without moving.

Angelo simply looked over at Dabte.

With a nod from Dante, he scooped her up effortlessly, her fists pounding against his chest as she screeched her protests.

Mikhail couldn’t help but admire her spirit, even in the midst of chaos.

She wasn’t the type to back down, even when the odds were stacked against her.

Dante turned his back to the scene, his focus now fully on Mikhail. “Walk with me,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Mikhail hesitated, glancing at Sal, who gave him a warning shake of the head. Sal’s silent plea was clear.

Don’t push this.

But Mikhail was past the point of retreat.

If Annabelle could fight even when she knew the odds were against her, why the fuck should he let Dante silence him from saying exactly how things were?

Annabelle loved him and he loved her too.

Dante need to know that not everyone would bend to his will.

Annabelle had shown that that evening.

The tension in the air was suffocating, but Mikhail straightened his shoulders, steeling himself as he followed Dante toward the shadowy edge of the estate.

The gravel shifted beneath their feet as they walked, the sounds of Annabelle’s distant protests fading into the background. Dante stopped abruptly, turning to face him.

His expression was unreadable, a mask of cold calculation. “So,” Dante began, his voice dangerously soft. “You’re taking a liking to my woman now, Mik? Gone one minute and this is what I get back too? Someone I count as my brother giving my woman some fucking flowers like she was his?”

Mikhail met Dante’s gaze, his chest tightening.

Every instinct told him to deny it, to play it off as a misunderstanding.

But Annabelle’s fiery defiance replayed in his mind, giving him a surge of courage.

“She’s not your woman,” Mikhail said, his voice steady. “You treat her like a possession forgetting one thing. She’s not anyone’s possession.”

Dante’s eyes narrowed, the flicker of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Is that so?” he said, his tone laced with mock amusement. “And here I thought you were smarter than this.”

Mikhail clenched his fists, his pulse pounding in his ears. “Maybe I’m just tired of everyone treating her like a pawn in their game.”

The smirk vanished from Dante’s face, replaced by a glint of something far more dangerous. “Careful,” Dante warned, his voice a low growl. “You’re walking a fine line.”

Mikhail’s jaw tightened, his resolve hardening. He wouldn’t back down.

Not this time.

“And maybe it’s time someone did.” he said.

He could almost hear even the walls of the mansion give a silent gasp behind him.

Dante went totally still, and that should have warned him.

For in the next minute, a blinding fist connected with his face like a freight train.