Page 4 of Impure Love

She pulls out the menu and waves it at me. "Good choice. I'll order your usual."

As she dials the number, my mind drifts back to the memory of his eyes. Expressionless, yet somehow filled with a power that makes my skin crawl. It's like he could see right through me, into my very soul. I shiver, pulling the blanket tighter around me.

The memory of him is so vividly haunting, I can still recall with perfect clarity the way he stared into me. It's why I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something more to the situation, something more that allowed me to escape with my life. It’ almost too much to process.

"Hey," Sophia calls from the kitchen. "You want extra dumplings?"

"Sure," I reply, my voice hollow.

She finishes the call and walks back over, plopping down beside me.

Sophia doesn't press me further, but I can see the doubt lingering in her eyes. She knows me too well to buy the half-baked story I fed her. I sit on the couch, clutching my phone, scrolling through news reports, desperately searching for any mention of the man I saw murdered. But there's nothing. No headlines, no police reports, no whispers in the crime section. It's like the man never existed.

My fingers fly across the screen, opening article after article, my mind a whirlwind of panic. "Come on, come on," I mutter under my breath, my heart racing. Each second that passes without a clue feels like another step closer to losing my grip on reality.

The truth is the silence in the news only makes me feel more manic. If no one's talking about it, does that mean no one knows? Or worse, does it mean someone is making sure no one finds out? The questions swirl in my head, each one more terrifying than the last. I stare at my phone, the screen now dark, my reflection staring back at me. I can't let Sophia think I'm losing my mind. I need to keep it together, for both our sakes.

A few hours later, Sophia stands by the door, slipping into a jacket. "Call me if you need anything, okay? I mean it."

I nod, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. "I will. Don’t worry about me."

She pauses, searching my face. "You sure you’re gonna be alright?"

"Yeah," I lie. "I'll be fine,” I say, still smiling.

“Alright.” She nods as she steps outside.

The door clicks shut behind her, and the smile crumbles. The apartment plunges into an uncomfortable silence, each tick of the clock magnified in the stillness. I sit there, staring at the door, my mind replaying the events of that night on a relentless loop.

A creak from the hallway makes me jump, my heart pounding in my chest. I tell myself it’s just the building settling, but the paranoia tightens its grip. Every sound, every shadow seems to morph into the man from the penthouse. His cold eyes, the lifeless body at his feet—it all feels too real, too close.

I know I should go to the police, but the thought of it sends a wave of dread through me. What if he finds out? What if he comes after me? I shake my head, trying to dispel the fear, but it clings to me like a second skin. No matter how many times I try to rationalize the situation, I keep ending up right back where I started. It's becoming repetitive and even as I’m aware of how insane it sounds, I can't help the uncertainty that weaves with the fear that's lingered.

As the evening progresses, the sky outside darkens, and the city’s neon lights cast eerie shadows on the walls. I move through the apartment, checking the locks, peeking out the windows. Nothing. Just the usual bustle of the city. But it doesn’t ease the tension in my chest.

I crawl into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. The silence is deafening, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. My eyes dart around the room, but there’s nothing there. Just my imagination playing tricks on me.

Sleep comes in fits and starts, each time I drift off, the nightmare pulls me under. I’m in that penthouse again, theman’s sharp jaw and unsettling gaze fixed on me. But this time, he’s pointing the gun at me. My heart races, my breath catches in my throat. I can’t move, can’t scream.

"Please," I whisper, my voice barely audible.

He steps closer, his expression unreadable. The gun feels like a lead weight, the barrel cold against my skin. I close my eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

I wake with a start, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding in my ears. The room is dark, the only light a faint glow from the streetlamp outside. I sit up, clutching the blankets, trying to steady my breathing. It was just a dream, I think to myself, but it felt so real.

3

DANTE

The leather chair creaks under my weight as I lean back, surveying the opulence of my office. As the Don of the Russo crime family, I sit high in my office waiting on my men's report regarding the murder at that penthouse last week.

Gold-framed portraits of long-dead ancestors line the walls, their eyes forever judging. Heavy velvet drapes block out the chaos of the world beyond, cocooning me in luxury and power. My desk, a massive mahogany beast, is cluttered with files and a crystal decanter of scotch.

Marco, my right hand man stands to my right, his suit as impeccable as mine. Across from me, Antonio shifts nervously next to Luca, his eyes flicking between me and the others. He knows the stakes. Everyone does.

"Cleanup went smooth," Luca starts, his voice steady. "No traces left behind."

Antonio nods. "Body's gone. Disposed of in the usual spot. No one's gonna find it."

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