Chapter 6 - Elena
"Dante!" The warning tears from my throat as I see the leader lunging toward him.
Everything moves in slow motion. Dante pivots, somehow anticipating my warning, his elbow connecting with the leader's jaw with a sickening crunch.
Blood sprays across the concrete steps. The knife clatters to the ground.
Part of me wants to look away, but I can't. This violent dance is horrifying yet mesmerizing.
This isn't happening. This can't be real. I was just at a gallery opening yesterday, worrying about wine selections and lighting.
The man I'd hit with my purse recovers, his eyes finding mine with murderous intent. My momentary bravery evaporates as he advances. I back against the door, fumbling with my keys, but they slip from my trembling fingers.
"You're gonna regret that, bitch," he snarls, lunging for me.
A blur of movement, and suddenly Raphael is there, catching the man's arm mid-strike. What follows happens so quickly I can barely process it—a series of precise movements, a horrible gasping sound, and the man collapses at my feet, clutching his throat.
Nearby, Dante is handling the last attacker with terrifying efficiency.
There's a strange grace to his violence, like a choreographed performance where every move has been practiced to perfection.
His expression remains calm, almost detached, even as he delivers blows that would incapacitate most men.
A final strike and the last attacker drops, moaning. The entire confrontation has lasted perhaps two minutes, but it feels like hours have passed.
Dante turns to me, blood staining his sleeve, his breathing only slightly elevated. "Are you hurt?"
I shake my head, unable to form words. My purse dangles forgotten from my fingers, its contents half-spilled onto the steps. My legs feel strange, disconnected from my body.
"Good." His voice is calm, but his eyes are scanning the street, alert for further threats. "We need to go. Now."
"Go?" I finally manage. "Go where? We need to call the police—"
"No police," he cuts me off, retrieving my keys from where they'd fallen. He presses them into my palm, closing my fingers around them with surprising gentleness. "Go inside. Pack whatever you need for a few days."
"What? No, I'm not going anywhere." My voice sounds strange to my own ears. "I have the gallery tomorrow, I can't just—"
"Elena." The way he says my name—firm but concerned—stops my protests. "Those men weren't random thugs. They were sent specifically, and they won't be the last. You're coming with me to my penthouse."
"I most certainly am not," I respond, finding my voice again, clinging to indignation as a shield against fear. "I don't care who you are, you can't just order me to—"
"This isn't a request," Dante interrupts, his tone brooking no argument. "Your brother has created a situation that's put you in danger. My penthouse is secure. You'll be safe there until this is resolved."
I glance at the groaning men on the ground. "What does Marco have to do with this? I still don’t understand."
"Everything." Dante's expression darkens. "Now go pack a bag, or I'll have Raphael do it for you. Either way, you're coming with me."
"Five minutes," I say finally, turning to unlock the door with still-trembling hands. "And then you explain everything."
"Five minutes," he agrees. "I'll wait here."
Inside my apartment, I move on autopilot, throwing clothes and essentials into an overnight bag. My mind races, trying to process what just happened. Men attacked us and mentioned Marco. My brother is somehow involved in this violence that just erupted outside my home.
I catch sight of myself in the bathroom mirror as I grab my toothbrush. My hair is disheveled, a smudge of something dark—blood?—stains my cheek, and my eyes are wide with lingering adrenaline. I barely recognize myself.
This is insane. I should be calling the police, not packing an overnight bag to stay with a man I barely know. A man who, minutes ago, incapacitated armed attackers that wanted to hurt me.
Yet something tells me Dante is right. The police can't help with whatever this is. And despite everything, despite knowing what he is and what he does, I feel safer with him than I would alone right now.
I take a deep breath, splashing cold water on my face before zipping my bag closed. Five minutes, as promised.
When I return to the entrance, the street is empty except for Dante and Raphael. No sign of the attackers, not even a drop of blood on the concrete to suggest they were ever there.
"How did you—" I begin, then shake my head. "Never mind. I don't want to know."
"A wise decision," Dante says, taking my bag from my hand. His injured arm doesn't seem to bother him as he carries it to the waiting car, which has somehow moved closer to the entrance. "After you."
The drive to Dante's building is silent. I stare out the window, watching the city transform from my modest neighborhood to the gleaming towers of downtown. My fingers keep tracing the clasp of my purse, remembering the shock of impact when it connected with that man's face.
I hit someone tonight. I was part of a violent confrontation. The reality of it feels surreal, disconnected from the person I've always believed myself to be.
"Your arm," I say suddenly, noticing the dark stain on Dante's sleeve has grown larger. "You're still bleeding."
"It's nothing," he dismisses, not even glancing at the injury. "Superficial."
"It needs cleaning, at least." I'm latching onto practical concerns, I realize. Anything to avoid processing the larger implications of tonight's events.
Dante studies me for a moment, then nods. "I have a first aid kit at the penthouse."
His building is everything I expected. Sleek, modern, exclusive. The security guards in the lobby nod as we enter, not batting an eye at my disheveled appearance or Dante's bloodied sleeve. A private elevator requires both a key card and what appears to be a fingerprint scan.
"Paranoid much?" I comment as the elevator ascends silently.
"Cautious," he corrects. "In my position, it's a necessity."
The doors open directly into his penthouse, revealing a space that takes my breath away despite my current state.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of the city below, glittering like fallen stars.
The interior is sleek but surprisingly warm.
Dark wood, rich leather, amber lighting that highlights an impressive collection of art on the walls.
My eyes immediately lock onto a canvas across the room—a Caravaggio. An original Caravaggio, casually displayed in a private residence as though it were a department store print.
"That's..." I begin, moving toward it.
"Original, yes," Dante confirms, setting my bag down. "My grandfather acquired it in the fifties."
"It should be in a museum," I say, unable to stop myself from approaching it, examining the masterful use of light and shadow. "This belongs to the world, not a private collection."
"Perhaps," Dante acknowledges, watching me with something like amusement. "But I find I'm rather possessive of beautiful things."
The comment draws my attention back to our situation. I turn to face him, crossing my arms defensively. "You promised explanations. Start talking."
He gestures to the spacious living area. "Please, sit. Would you like a drink?"
"What I'd like are answers," I insist, but I move to one of the leather sofas anyway, perching on its edge. "Who were those men? What do they have to do with Marco?"
Dante disappears briefly into what I assume is a bathroom, returning with a first aid kit. He removes his ruined suit jacket, then begins rolling up his sleeve to reveal the cut on his forearm. It's deeper than I expected, still seeping blood.
"Let me," I say impulsively, rising to take the antiseptic and gauze from his hands. "You can talk while I do this."
He raises an eyebrow but sits, extending his arm toward me. I focus on cleaning the wound, grateful for the distraction of a concrete task.
"Those men work for Vincent Moretti," Dante begins, not even flinching as I apply the antiseptic to the cut. "A Russian with interests in shipping and distribution along the eastern seaboard. Recently, he's been trying to establish a presence in our city."
"And that's bad for you and my brother," I deduce, unrolling a length of gauze.
"It's complicated," he says, watching me work. "Territory and business relationships in our world operate on delicate balances. New players disrupt those balances."
"So, these men attacked us because their boss is competing against my brother and you?" I press the gauze to his wound, perhaps a bit harder than necessary.
"No," Dante says, his eyes finding mine. "They attacked because your brother has been doing business with them. Against established agreements."
I pause in my bandaging. "What does that mean?"
"It means Marco is playing a dangerous game," Dante explains, his voice hardening slightly. "He's making deals with too many competing interests. Moretti's people, the Albanians, even some of the Chinese. He's promising the same territories, the same concessions, to multiple parties."
"That doesn't make sense," I argue, securing the bandage with medical tape. "Marco isn't stupid. He knows how these things work."
"He's desperate," Dante counters. "His operation is bleeding money, and he's looking for quick infusions of cash to keep it afloat."
My hands still on his arm. "How do you know that?"
"Because I make it my business to know." His expression is unreadable. "And because I have people in his organization who report to me."
The implication takes a moment to register. "You have spies in my brother's business? You're the one betraying him?"
A flash of something—perhaps irritation—crosses Dante's face. "This isn't about betrayal, Elena. It's about survival. Your brother has at least one high-level traitor in his inner circle, possibly more. And it's not just me they're reporting to."
"What are you saying?" I release his arm, stepping back.
"I'm saying Marco has lost the confidence of his people," Dante says bluntly. "In our world, loyalty is everything. Without it, you're finished."
"So those men tonight..."
"Were sending a message. To Marco, through you.
" He rises, moving to a cabinet where he retrieves two glasses and a bottle of amber liquid.
"They know he keeps you separate from the business.
Attacking you crosses a line. It tells him they don't respect that separation. That nothing is off-limits anymore."
He pours two measures, offering one to me. I take it, my mind racing to process everything he's telling me.
"Marco keeps saying he's protecting me," I say quietly, staring into the glass. "But he's the one who put me in danger, isn't he?"
"Yes." Dante doesn't soften the truth. "By making enemies of everyone, he's exposed you. These people know you're his weakness. They'll exploit that."
"And you?" I look up at him directly. "Where do you fit in all this? Are you his enemy too?"
Dante considers the question, taking a sip of his drink before answering. "I'm his rival. There's a difference."
"Is there?" I challenge. "You have spies in his organization. You're clearly planning something against him."
"I'm planning to survive," he corrects. "Marco's actions are destabilizing everything. If he continues, there will be a war that engulfs this entire city. I'm trying to prevent that."
"By what? Taking over his territory? Eliminating him?" The words taste bitter on my tongue.
"I don't want to kill your brother, Elena. Despite what you may think of me, I don't solve all my problems with violence."
"Just most of them," I mutter, finally taking a sip of the drink. It burns pleasantly down my throat, steadying my nerves.
"When necessary," he acknowledges without apology. "But this situation requires a more nuanced approach."
"Which is what, exactly?"
He moves to the windows, looking out over the city. His city, in many ways. "Marco needs to be contained before he destroys himself and everything around him. Including you."
"And you're appointing yourself to this task out of the goodness of your heart?" I can't keep the sarcasm from my voice.
"No," he says simply, turning back to face me. "I'm doing it because it serves my interests. But that doesn't mean it won't also protect you."
His honesty, however brutal, is strangely refreshing. No platitudes, no false reassurances. Just the unvarnished truth as he sees it.
"You barely know me," I point out. "Why would you care about my protection?"
"Let's just say I recognize something worth preserving," he says. "You've built something genuine with your gallery. Something untouched by all this." He gestures vaguely, encompassing the violent world we both inhabit, albeit from different angles.
"And you want to keep it that way," I finish for him, still skeptical.
"Is that so hard to believe?"
"Yes," I admit. "Men like you don't protect things out of admiration. There's always an angle."
A slight smile touches his lips. "Perhaps. Or perhaps you don't know men like me as well as you think you do."
I drain my glass, setting it down with a decisive click. "So, what happens now? I just stay here indefinitely while you wage some shadow war against my brother?"
"For tonight, you stay here where it's safe," Dante says. "Tomorrow, we reassess the situation. My people will watch your gallery, ensure it remains secure."
"My gallery," I repeat, suddenly remembering the exhibition aftermath, the paperwork waiting for me. "I have commitments, Dante. I can't just disappear."
"You won't have to," he assures me. "But for now, you need rest. It's been a long night."