“I’ll Give You $10M If You Translate This”, Laughed The Mafia Boss… But The Shy Waitress Silenced…

The Sinner’s Seat

As if on cue, a massive explosion rocked the foundations of the house. The glass in the windows shattered against the iron bars.

Alarms began to wail. Dante lunged across the room, tackling Selene onto the mattress and covering her body with his just as bullets began to shred the room.

“Welcome to the family,”

he whispered into her hair. The world didn’t go black; it went white.

A blinding, searing white erased the luxurious bedroom, the heavy velvet drapes, and the man standing before her. Then came the sound—not a boom, but a physical blow to the eardrums.

A pressure wave sucked the air out of Selene’s lungs before slamming it back in with the taste of drywall and smoke. Selene lay curled on the floor, her cheek pressed against the rough fibers of the Persian rug.

Her ears were ringing, a high-pitched whine that drowned out the world. She coughed, the movement sending a sharp bolt of pain through her ribs.

Something heavy shifted above her.

“Stay down.”

The voice was a vibration against her spine more than a sound. Dante.

He was covering her, his body a human shield bridging over her small frame to take the brunt of the falling debris. He groaned, a low guttural sound of pain, and rolled off her.

Selene scrambled to her hands and knees, blinking through the haze of plaster dust. The room was unrecognizable.

The heavy oak door had been blown off its hinges. The hallway beyond was an inferno, orange flames licking at the ceiling, casting dancing demonic shadows into the room.

“Dante,”

she choked out. He was already moving.

He rose to a crouch, shaking debris from his dark hair like a wolf shaking off water. Blood trickled from a cut above his eyebrow, slicing a crimson line down his cheek.

But his eyes were clear, focused, and terrifyingly calm. He checked the clip of his gun, sliding it back into place with a metallic click that sounded loud even over the roar of the fire.

“Can you run?”

he asked, grabbing her arm. His grip was bruising, desperate.

“I—I think so,”

Selene stammered, her legs trembling.

“Don’t think. Do.”

He hauled her up.

“Stay behind me. Hold on to my belt. If I stop, you stop. If I shoot, you cover your ears. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good girl.”

He kicked the remnants of the door frame aside and stepped into the burning hallway. The heat was oppressive, a physical wall that smelled of melting plastic and expensive wood.

The automatic fire suppression system had failed—sabotaged, Selene realized. Her analytical mind, usually her sanctuary, was frantically cataloging the disaster.

Structural damage to the east wing. Fire spreading at approximately 10 feet per minute.

Exit options limited. A figure emerged from the smoke at the end of the hall, a silhouette holding an assault rifle.

Selene barely had time to gasp before Dante raised his arm. Pop! Pop!

Two shots, efficient and muted. The figure crumpled.

Dante didn’t slow down. He stepped over the body without looking down.

Selene looked, though; she couldn’t help it. The man was wearing tactical gear with a patch on his shoulder she didn’t recognize.

Not police. Mercenaries.

“Don’t look,”

Dante commanded, his voice tight.

“Keep moving.”

They reached the grand staircase, but the bottom half had collapsed into the foyer, which was now a war zone of gunfire. Bullets chipped away at the marble banister near Selene’s head.

She screamed, ducking low.

“They’re coming through the front,”

Dante growled.

“Plan B.”

He spun her around, dragging her toward a narrow servant’s door concealed in the paneling of the wall. He punched a code into a hidden keypad.

The panel slid open, revealing a dark, spiraling concrete staircase leading down into the earth.

“Go!”

He shoved her in.

“Where does this go?”

she cried, stumbling into the darkness.

“The wine cellar, then the tunnels. Move, Selene.”

He slammed the panel shut behind them, plunging them into pitch blackness. For a moment, there was silence save for their ragged breathing.

Then, a click, and the beam of a tactical flashlight cut through the dark. Dante descended the stairs two at a time, pulling her along.

The air down here was cool and damp, smelling of mold and old cork—a stark contrast to the burning hell above. They reached the bottom.

Dante navigated the maze of wine racks with memory, not sight. He stopped at a heavy iron door, unlocked it with a key from around his neck, and pushed them through into a garage that looked more like a concrete bunker.

Inside sat a single car: a matte black Aston Martin, vintage but clearly modified.

“Get in,”

he ordered. Selena threw herself into the passenger seat.

The leather was cold. Dante slid into the driver’s side, tossing the gun onto his lap.

He keyed the ignition, and the engine roared to life with a feral growl that echoed off the concrete walls.

“Buckle up,”

he said, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror.

“This part gets rough.”

He hit a button on the dashboard. The wall in front of them began to rise, a concealed exit leading directly into the dense forest surrounding the estate.

As the car surged forward, tires screeching on the pavement, Selene looked back. The mansion, the golden cage, was a torch against the night sky.

Flames burst from the roof, illuminating the trees. And swarming the lawn were dozens of men, like ants on a carcass.

“They destroyed it,”

Selene whispered, shock finally setting in.

“You’re home.”

Dante didn’t look back. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his jaw set so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek.

“It wasn’t a home,”

he said, his voice devoid of sentiment.

“It was just a building, and I have plenty of buildings.”

He slammed his foot on the gas. The car rocketed onto the narrow forest road, tearing through the underbrush, leaving the fire and the life Selene knew behind.

She watched his profile in the dim light of the dashboard. He looked composed, almost bored, but she saw the tremor in his left hand—the hand that wasn’t holding the wheel.

He wasn’t made of stone; he was just better at hiding the cracks. The drive lasted for hours.

They moved in silence, a heavy, thick atmosphere filling the small cabin of the car. Dante avoided the highways, sticking to winding back roads that cut through the sleeping towns of upstate New York.

The rain began an hour in, a relentless downpour that drummed against the roof and blurred the world outside into streaks of gray and black. Selena’s adrenaline had faded, leaving behind a cold, shaking exhaustion.

Her silk pajamas were ruined, stained with soot and dust. She hugged her arms around herself, trying to stop her teeth from chattering.

Dante noticed. He didn’t speak, but he reached out and turned the heater up to the maximum setting.

The blast of hot air was a small mercy.

“Where are we going?”

she asked finally, her voice raspy.

“Nowhere,”

Dante replied.

“A ghost spot. It’s not on any deed, not in any database. My father bought it under a shell company in the 80s for cash.”

He slowed the car, turning onto a gravel track that was barely visible through the overgrown pines. The car crunched over stones and twigs for a mile before coming to a halt in front of a small A-frame cabin near a dark lake.

It looked abandoned. No lights, no movement, just a shadow against the water.

“Wait here,”

Dante said. He got out, gun in hand, and circled the perimeter.

Selene watched him through the rain-streaked glass. He moved with a predator’s grace, checking the windows, the doors, the treeline.

Only when he was satisfied did he return to the car and open her door.

“It’s clear. Let’s go.”

The run from the car to the porch soaked Selene to the bone. Inside, the cabin was freezing.

It smelled of cedar and stale air. Dante locked the door behind them and immediately went to the fireplace, stacking logs and kindling with efficient movements.

Within minutes, a fire was crackling, casting a warm, flickering glow over the room. It was sparse: a leather couch, a heavy wooden table, a small kitchenette.

Dante stripped off his soaked shirt, tossing it onto a chair. Selene averted her eyes, then looked back, gasping involuntarily.

His back was a tapestry of scars: old knife wounds, bullet grazes, and the fresh, angry bruising from the debris that had fallen on him tonight. But what drew her eye was the deep gash on his shoulder, still oozing blood.

“You’re hurt,”

she said, stepping forward. Dante glanced at his shoulder, dismissing it.

“It’s a scratch.”

“It’s not a scratch, Dante. It needs stitches, or at least to be cleaned.”

“I’ll handle it,”

he grunted, walking toward the kitchen sink. He found a bottle of vodka in a cupboard and a clean rag.

“You can’t reach it,”

Selena pointed out. She walked over to him, her hesitation warring with her logic.

She wasn’t a doctor, but she was practical.

“Give it to me.”

Dante paused, the bottle of vodka in his hand. He looked down at her in the firelight.

His eyes were less stormy, more weary. He looked at her small hands, then at her determined face.

Wordlessly, he handed her the bottle and the rag. He sat on one of the wooden chairs.

Selene stood between his knees, trying to ignore the heat radiating from his bare skin. She poured the vodka onto the rag.

“This is going to sting,”

she whispered.

“Do it.”

She pressed the cloth to the wound. Dante hissed, his hands gripping his thighs until the knuckles turned white, but he didn’t pull away.

Selene worked carefully, cleaning away the blood and grit. Up close, he was overwhelming—the scent of rain, musk, and iron, the hardness of his muscles under her fingertips.

It was intimate in a way that terrified her more than the gunfire had.

“Why?”

she asked softly, focusing on the wound to avoid his eyes.

“Why what?”

his voice was rough.

“Why did you cover me in the room? The ceiling was falling. You could have run.”

Dante was silent for a long moment. She could feel his chest rise and fall with each breath.

“You’re the asset,”

he said finally.

“The money is in your head.”