9. Chapter 9 Natalie

Chapter 9 Natalie

A ccel City is a ghost town at this ungodly hour, the first weak rays of dawn barely piercing the smog-choked sky. I stumble down the deserted street, my body a jittery mess of cocaine and fear. Sleep is a distant memory, chased away by the shadows that lurk at the edges of my vision.

My duffel bag weighs a ton, the canvases inside a reminder of my humanity. They're all I have left now - my art, my soul splattered across stretched fabric. The last fragments of a life that's spiraling out of control.

Mark's gallery looms ahead, a gleaming monolith of glass and steel that seems to mock my disheveled state. I haven't been here since he first took me on as a client, back when I thought I might actually have a shot at making it in this cutthroat world.

Before the murders. Before the cops. Before him .

I shudder, my hand instinctively tightening around the mace canister in my pocket. The Don of Accel City. Even the thought of his name sends icy fingers of dread crawling up my spine. I can still feel the ghost of his touch, the heat of his breath on my neck as he whispered dark promises in my ear.

"Get it together, Natalie," I mutter, shaking my head to clear the cobwebs. "He's not here. He can't hurt you."

But even as the words leave my lips, I know they're a lie. Dante is everywhere and nowhere, a phantom that haunts my every waking moment. And now, thanks to my own stupidity, I've dragged Mark into this mess too.

The memory of last week's gallery opening flashes through my mind. Sienna, resplendent in a dress that cost more than my yearly rent, sidling up to me with that Cheshire cat grin.

"Darling," she'd purred, her words slurring slightly from too much champagne. "You simply must let me introduce Mark to the Corsinis. They're always on the lookout for fresh talent, and with your... unique association with Luca. I'm sure they'd be fascinated."

I should have said no. Should have run screaming in the opposite direction. But the promise of connections, of finally breaking into the upper echelons of the art world... it was too tempting to resist.

And now?

The thought sends a fresh wave of nausea rolling through me. I pause, leaning against a graffiti-covered wall as I try to quell the urge to vomit. The brick is rough against my clammy skin, anchoring me to reality.

"Focus," I growl, pushing off the wall with trembling hands. "You're here to warn him, to make this right. Nothing else matters."

I force myself to keep moving, each step feeling like I'm wading through molasses. The gallery's pristine facade looms closer, but something's... off. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, a primal warning that danger lurks ahead.

That's when I hear it. A sound that doesn't belong in this pre-dawn stillness. A sharp crack that echoes off the surrounding buildings, sending pigeons scattering in a panic.

A gunshot.

For a moment, I'm frozen. A deer in the headlights, torn between self-preservation and morbid curiosity. I should run, call the cops, do anything but investigate the source of that ominous sound.

But even as the thought crosses my mind, I'm already moving. Creeping towards the glass doors on legs that feel like they might give out at any second. My heart is a jackhammer in my chest, threatening to burst through my ribcage.

Oh god. Oh fuck. There's blood on the windows. Crimson smears stark against the pristine glass.

I fumble for my phone with numb fingers, ready to dial 911. When the doors suddenly swing open, spilling harsh white light across the sidewalk.

I blink against the glare, a scream dying in my throat as a hulking figure fills the doorway. A walking mountain, his bald head gleaming like polished marble.

For a moment, I'm certain this is the end. The Grim fucking Reaper himself, come to collect my sinner's soul.

But then he steps aside, beckoning me in with frightening politeness. "Mr. Corleone will see you now."

I stare at him, my legs unwilling to budge. "Who the fuck are you?"

The chilling sound of a gun cocking cuts me off, all the blood draining from my face. Because now I can see past my wannabe doorman. See the scene of carnage awaiting me in the gallery beyond.

Blood. Rivers of it, coating the crisp white walls like macabre finger paint. Shattered glass and splintered wood crunching beneath steel-toed boots as figures in black move with ruthless efficiency.

And in the center of it all, a body. Splayed out on the polished floor like a broken marionette, limbs askew and head lolling at an unnatural angle.

Mark. Oh, Jesus, it's Mark. Or what's left of him.

Bile rises in my throat as I take in his sightless eyes. The ragged hole where his jaw used to be, weeping claret and shards of bone.

I can't move. Can't breathe. Can't do anything but stand there, my mind trying desperately to reject the horror before me. This isn't real. It can't be real. Wake up, Natalie. Please god, just WAKE UP…

Rough hands seize my arms, startling a weak cry from my paralyzed lungs. No no no, this isn't happening. It's just another nightmare, the dark birthing of my twisted psyche. Any second now I'll jerk awake, panting and clammy but blessedly alone.

But the hands on my body are all too solid as they drag me into the gallery. The blood squelching beneath my boots is too warm, too thick. The stench of gunpowder and viscera is all too real as it clogs my nostrils and coats my tongue.

I'm barely aware of the duffel bag being ripped away, my precious canvases clattering to the floor. All I can see is Mark, his ruined face searing itself into my retinas. Oh god, all that blood, all that beautiful crimson, I can't look away, I can't-

"Exquisite, isn't it?" A familiar voice cuts through the chaos, smooth as silk and cold as ice. "The way the light catches the arterial spray... it's almost poetic."

My head snaps up, vision swimming as I meet obsidian eyes. The same eyes that have been haunting my dreams, infiltrating the dark corners of my subconscious.

Dante Corleone. The devil incarnate, standing before me in a perfectly tailored suit without a speck of blood to mar its crisp lines.

"You," I breathe, a thousand emotions crashing through me like a tempest. Fear, revulsion, fascination. And beneath it all, a traitorous curl of heat in my belly. "What the fuck have you done?"

His lips quirk, a ghost of a smile devoid of warmth. "Nothing you need to concern yourself with, moy voron. The only thing that matters now is us."

Us. The word rattles around my skull like a bullet, ricocheting off the confines of my sanity. How can there be an "us"? I don't even know this man, this beautiful monster with the devil's eyes and an angel's face.

"There is no us," I spit, struggling against the iron grip of his goons. "You're a fucking psychopath. I want nothing to do with you or your sick games."

Dante's eyes flash, a hint of something dark and hungry sparking in their depths. "Oh, but you do, my little bird. You've been playing this game since the moment you caught my eye. And now?" He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. "Now it's time to claim my prize."

Before I can react, he's there, invading my space. His hand cups my face, fingers digging into my jaw with bruising force. I try to turn away, but he holds me fast, forcing me to meet his gaze.

"Look at me, Natalie," he commands, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down my spine. "Look at me and tell me you don't feel it. This connection, this pull between us. It's destiny, my little paintbrush. Written in the stars and sealed in blood."

I want to deny it. Want to scream and rage and tell him he's out of his fucking mind. But the words stick in my throat, choking me with their insincerity.

Because deep down, in the twisted, shadowed corners of my psyche that I've tried so hard to ignore... I know he's right.

There's something between us, a dark current of recognition that terrifies me more than any physical threat ever could. It's like looking into a mirror and seeing the monster you've always feared lurking beneath your skin.

"No," I whisper, but it's weak, unconvincing even to my own ears. "This isn't... I'm not..."

Dante's smile is all predator, sharp teeth and dark promise. "Not what, solnyshko? Not the kind of girl who craves the darkness? Who longs to be consumed, body and soul?"

His thumb traces my lower lip, and I hate myself for the way my body responds. Heat pools as my breath catches in my throat.

"I've seen your art, Natalie," he continues, his voice a seductive purr. "The violence, the passion, the raw, bleeding emotion. You can't create that kind of beauty without having touched the abyss. Without letting it touch you in return."

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out his words, his touch, the intoxicating scent of him. But it's useless. He's already under my skin, a poison spreading through my veins.

"Please," I breathe, not even sure what I'm asking for. Mercy? Oblivion?

His grip on my jaw tightens, forcing my eyes open. "Look at me," he commands, and I'm helpless to disobey. "Tell me you don't want this. Tell me you don't crave the chaos, the freedom I'm offering you."

I stare into those fathomless eyes, drowning in their inky depths. And in that moment, I see it all. The empire of blood and shadow he's built, the throne of bones he wants me to share. A world where morality is a distant memory, where the only law is desire.

It's terrifying. It's exhilarating. It's everything I've ever secretly wanted and everything I've been running from.

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. My throat is tight with fear, my lungs refusing to draw breath. Everything spins around me, the edges of my vision going dark.

The last thing I see before I fall is Dante's face, those obsidian eyes burning with triumph and something darker. Something hungry.

Then everything goes black, and I fall into the abyss.

I come to slowly, awareness seeping back in fragments. Soft leather beneath me, the purr of an expensive engine, the scent of sandalwood and sin filling my lungs. For a moment, I keep my eyes closed, clinging to the desperate hope that this is just another cocaine-fueled nightmare.

But the hand on my thigh, warm and possessive, is all too real.

"Welcome back, little bird," Dante's voice washes over me, dark honey and razor blades. "I was beginning to worry you'd sleep the whole way home."

My eyes snap open, panic clawing up my throat as I take in my surroundings. We're in a car – no, a fucking limousine – speeding through the neon-drenched heart of Accel City. And Dante... Christ, he's right there, so close I can feel the heat radiating off his body.

"This isn't happening," I croak, my voice raw and desperate. "Let me go, you psychotic fuck. I'll scream, I'll –"

His hand tightens on my thigh, cutting off my protests. "By all means, solnyshko," he purrs, leaning in close enough that I can feel his breath on my neck. "Scream all you want. No one will hear you. No one will care."

A whimper escapes me, part fear and... something else. Something dark and hungry that I don't want to name. "Why are you doing this?" I whisper, hating how small I sound. "Why me?"

Dante's laugh is low and rich, sending shivers down my spine. "Oh, Natalie," he murmurs, his free hand coming up to cup my face. I try to flinch away, but there's nowhere to go. "Don't you know? You're mine. You've always been mine, from the moment I saw your art. Your beautiful, broken soul calling out to mine."

His thumb traces my lower lip, and I hate myself for the way my body responds. "You're insane," I manage, but the words lack conviction.

"Maybe," he concedes, his eyes darkening with hunger. "But then, aren't all the best artists a little mad? You and I, solnyshko – we're cut from the same cloth. Drenched in sin and shadow, creating beauty from the ashes of our broken minds."

Before I can process his words, his lips are on mine. The kiss is brutal, all teeth and tongue and dark promise. I should fight, should bite and claw and scream. But instead, I melt into him, a broken moan escaping me as he devours my mouth.

When he finally pulls away, we're both panting. I can taste blood – mine or his, I'm not sure. Maybe both.

"There's my good girl," Dante growls, his voice rough with desire. "I knew you'd come around eventually."

Shame and self-loathing crash over me in waves. What the fuck is wrong with me? This man is a monster, a killer. He's destroyed my life, murdered people I knew. And yet...

And yet I want him. God help me, I want him so badly it hurts.

"Where are you taking me?" I ask, trying to regain some semblance of control. To remember who I am, who I was before he came crashing into my world.

Dante's smile is all predator, sharp teeth and dark promise. "Home, little bird. To your gilded cage, where you'll sing only for me."

The limo slows, and I realize with a jolt that we've left the city behind. A massive wrought-iron gate looms before us, opening silently as we approach. Beyond it stretches a driveway lined with towering trees, their branches reaching for the sky like gnarled fingers.

At the end of the drive stands a mansion that looks like it was lifted straight from a Gothic horror novel. All dark stone and glittering windows, gargoyles leering from every corner. It's beautiful and terrifying, just like the man beside me.

"Welcome to Shadowcrest," Dante says as the car comes to a stop. "Your new home."