EMILIO'S POV
Dante shifted, trying to break the cuffs on the tree bark. Emilio joined him, turning so their wrists met.
Metal scraped. Blood smeared. But they didn't stop.
Dante's cuff snapped loose first. His hand jerked back, raw and red, but he didn't pause. He moved immediately to Emilio's wrist, fingers fast and practiced. Emilio gritted his teeth, the sharp sting of bark cutting into his skin as Dante worked. And then—click. The second cuff gave.
For half a second, Emilio just stared at his wrist, stunned.
Then Dante grabbed his hand.
"Run."
They did.
Emilio's legs moved before his brain caught up. Trees blurred past. The cold wind slashed against his cheeks. Behind them, gunshots cracked through the air like thunder, too close—too close*. The shouts of men chasing them echoed between the trees.
Emilio had been scared before—but not like this.
Not like this.
His feet slipped in the wet leaves, his breath hitching. Dante was ahead, glancing back now and then to make sure Emilio was keeping up. His movements were sharp, and confident, like he knew exactly where he was going. He moved through the woods like a shadow, weaving between trunks and ducking under low-hanging branches, always one step ahead.
Emilio tried to keep up, but the panic was rising fast.
He wasn't made for this. Not forests. No blood on his cuffs. Not the raw scrape of survival.
He tripped on a root, stumbling. His knee slammed into the mud, hard. Pain flared. For a second, all he could do was gasp.
But Dante was there. He reached down, grabbed Emilio's arm, and pulled him up like he weighed nothing.
"Move," Dante hissed. "They'll shoot on sight."
Emilio didn't argue. Couldn't. He just ran.
His chest burned. Every breath was a fight. But Dante didn't stop—he led. Through twisting paths, around boulders and thorns. He kept checking the angle of the ground, scanning the terrain like he knew the forest better than his own name.
"We're not going straight," Dante muttered, mostly to himself. "They'll expect that."
He veered left, toward a slope. Emilio's legs almost gave out as they slid down it, feet struggling for grip on the slick mossy ground. But Dante didn't stumble. He guided him like he *belonged* here—like this nightmare had once been home.
Emilio's mind was spinning, but part of him noticed. Noticed the way Dante's eyes stayed alert, how his fingers brushed over trees like he was reading them. How he avoided loud patches of leaves and stepped over traps only a seasoned eye would see.
Dante had done this before.
Too many times.
That realization did something strange to Emilio. It made his own fear feel smaller. Because Dante wasn't just surviving—he was *protecting*. Him.
They stopped behind a thick fallen trunk. Dante pushed Emilio down, crouching beside him.
"Stay low," he whispered. "They're close."
Emilio nodded, too winded to speak. His hands trembled in his lap. His chest rose and fell like he couldn't get enough air. The fear was thick in his throat.
He hated it. Hated feeling weak. But he couldn't pretend right now. Not when he was certain the next bullet might be for him.
Dante's hand gripped his shoulder, grounding him. Silent. Steady.
And Emilio realized—Dante wasn't afraid. Tense, yes. Angry, probably. But not scared. Not like him.
That shook something loose in his chest.
He looked at Dante, eyes burning.
And Dante looked back. Just for a second. Their gazes locked.
No words.
None needed.
Dante moved again, leading the way through tighter trees, taking hidden turns Emilio never would've found alone. They crossed a stream, boots splashing through the icy water. Dante stopped to help him up the opposite bank, one hand always ready, always watching his back.
It wasn't just survival anymore.
It was intention.
Dante was guiding them somewhere. Not just running blind.
And Emilio started to believe they might actually make it.
Eventually, they reached a thick patch of moss-covered rock.
The ground dipped lower ahead. A slope, covered in wet leaves and moss.
Dante moved first, stepping carefully. "This way," he whispered.
Emilio followed, but his legs were tired. His shoes slipped on the slick ground.
He fell.
His body slid fast down the slope. His side scraped a rock and his arm hit something sharp.
"Ah—" he gasped, the pain shooting through him.
Dante turned fast. "Emilio!"
He rushed back, his boots sure and steady even on the steep ground. When he reached him, he dropped to one knee beside him.
"You okay?" His voice was low but firm, eyes scanning for injury.
Emilio held his arm close to his chest, teeth clenched. "I think I scraped it. It hurts."
Dante didn't waste time. He took Emilio's good hand and pulled him up gently. "Come on. Just a little more. The place is close."
With one arm around Emilio's back, he helped him walk up the last few steps to the hidden space. It wasn't far, but every step made Emilio's arm throb.
Still, Dante stayed close. His grip strong. His presence steady.
When they finally reached the shelter of the mossy rock wall again, Dante helped Emilio sit. He crouched beside him, eyes flicking to the cut on his arm.
Dante stopped, checked the treeline, then gently pushed Emilio to lean against the stone wall. He stood in front of him, shielding him with his body as he listened.
Nothing.
No footsteps. No shouting.
Only the wind in the leaves.
"Rest," Dante muttered, voice low. "Just a minute."
Emilio slid down the rock, his legs giving out. His palms were scraped, his hair soaked from sweat and dew. His heart was still thundering, but slowly... the fear Lessened.
He looked up at Dante, and for the first time, saw *all* of him.
The fighter. The strategist. The protector.
This wasn't the same man he'd argued with in that underground.
This was someone who had lived through worse.
And was dragging Emilio out of it now.
"I didn't think you'd know where to go," Emilio whispered, hoarse.
Dante glanced down. His expression unreadable. "I grew up in places like this. It's easier to hide in the woods than a city street."
Emilio nodded slowly. His voice cracked. "I didn't."
"I know."
The silence stretched. Not awkward. Just... full. Like they'd passed through something and come out the other side not quite the same.
Emilio leaned his head back against the rock, eyes drifting closed.
And for the first time since this nightmare started, he felt like he could breathe again.