Page 17 of Dante
"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."
