Chapter 11 Stories of Blood
Dante returned at three in the morning with blood on his cufflinks and murder in his eyes.
Elena heard him before she saw him—the penthouse door slamming, his footsteps heavy and wrong, the crash of something expensive hitting a wall. She sat up, heart hammering, as his silhouette filled the bedroom doorway. Even in darkness, she could see the tension radiating from him, coiled violence barely contained.
"Don't turn on the light," he said, his voice rough. Dangerous.
This was the monster. The real one. And he was three feet away in the dark.
"What happened?" Elena pulled the blanket tighter.
"Business. The kind that reminds me exactly what I am." He moved into her sitting room, and moonlight caught his face—jaw clenched, eyes dark and empty. "Do you want to know? Do you want to hear what your charming dinner companion did tonight?"
Elena should say no. Should tell him to go, keep his darkness to himself. But curiosity made her nod.
"Tell me."
"Brave girl. Or stupid." He sat on the edge of her bed without asking. "Three men tried to steal from me tonight. From my shipment at the docks. Do you know what I did to them?"
"No."
"I killed two myself. Quick. One bullet each." He held up his hand—knuckles split, bloody. "The third one, the leader—I made an example of. Because mercy is weakness in my world."
Elena's stomach turned. "What did you do?"
"I want you to guess." He turned to face her. "What do you think men like me do to people who steal from us?"
"I don't want to play this game."
"Too bad. We're playing." He leaned closer. "Did I torture him? Beat him? Take a guess, cara. Show me you understand exactly what kind of man shares your space."
"Stop it. Why are you doing this?"
"Because you were looking at me like I was human tonight. Because you held my hand and almost let me kiss you, and I need you to remember what those hands have done." His hand shot out, gripping her chin. "Say what I am so you stop looking at me like I'm worth saving!"
"Let go of me."
"Say it!" His voice cracked. "Say what I am!"
"You're a killer! You're a monster and—and you're hurting me right now, so congratulations, point proven!"
Dante released her like she'd burned him. "Cristo. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—" He stared at his hands. "I shouldn't be here. Not like this."
"Wait." The word escaped before Elena could stop it.
He froze. "What?"
"Tell me." Elena kept her voice steady. "You came here for a reason. Show me. Tell me what you did tonight. All of it."
"Elena—"
"Tell me."
Dante sank back down, and slowly, he began to speak.
He told her about Vincent Russo. About breaking the man's kneecaps first, then his hands, slowly and methodically. About Vincent's begging, his promises, his eventual screaming. And then about the kill—quick, almost merciful after what came before.
Elena listened, fighting nausea, watching Dante's face. Looking for the monster. Finding only a man who looked haunted.
"Say something," Dante said quietly. "Tell me you hate me."
"Did he have a family?"
The question caught him off guard. "What?"
"Vincent Russo. Did he have a family?"
"I don't know. I don't ask. It's easier if I don't know."
"Easier for who?"
"For me! Do you think I enjoy this?" The confession exploded from him. "I do what I have to do to survive, to maintain power, to keep people from taking everything I've built."
"That's horrible."
"I know." He moved to the window. "But it's also proof of something. Every relationship I've had was chosen strategically. I picked women who made sense, who fit my world. And I felt nothing."
"Your point?"
"My point is you're the opposite of every choice I ever made. You don't belong here. You fight me constantly. Being with you is strategically disastrous." His voice roughened. "And Cristo, Elena—I'm more alive with you than I ever was with any of them."
"You're just saying what I want to hear."
"I'm saying what's true." He moved closer. "I should have buried that past the moment I decided you were my future. But I kept it because I thought I might need proof I could still be detached. But I can't be him anymore. Not since you."
"What changed?"
"You did." His hand came up to cup her face. "I'm not asking you to forgive what I did tonight. I'm asking you to understand that this is who I am. Violence and philosophy. Brutality and books."
Elena's throat tightened. "I don't know if I can live with that cost."
"Then tell me now. Tell me if seeing this is too much."
She should say yes. Should tell him this was too much, that she couldn't reconcile the man who made breakfast with the one who'd tortured someone hours ago.
But looking into his tortured eyes, seeing the raw honesty there, Elena realized something: The monster knew he was a monster. Hated it. And was choosing to show her anyway instead of pretending.
"I don't forgive you," Elena said quietly. "For tonight. For any of it. But I'm trying to understand."
"That's more than I deserve." Dante's forehead dropped to rest against hers. "I came here to push you away. To make you see the monster clearly. But standing here now, with you trying to understand instead of just hate—Cristo, I don't deserve you."
"No. You don't." Elena's hands came up to frame his face. "But maybe we're both too broken to deserve anything good."
He kissed her then—not gentle, but desperate and raw. Elena kissed him back, tasting desperation and confession and the terrible awareness that she was choosing this. Choosing him. Despite the blood and the violence.
When they broke apart, Dante pulled back.
"I should go. Let you sleep."
"Stay." The word escaped before Elena could stop it. "Just stay. I don't want to be alone with what you told me."
Something vulnerable flickered across his face. "You want me to stay after what I just confessed?"
"I want to not be alone. There's a difference."
Dante studied her, then carefully lay down beside her on top of the covers. Not touching. Just close.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For not running. For trying to understand."
Elena turned to face him in the darkness. "I'm not staying because I forgive you. I'm staying because I need to know if the man who writes journals is stronger than the man who tortures thieves."
"And if he's not?"
"Then I'll know what I'm choosing."
His fingers found hers in the darkness. "Sleep now, cara. Tomorrow we'll figure out what this means."
But neither of them slept.
They lay in the darkness, hands linked, breathing in sync, and felt something shift.Something irreversible.
Elena had seen the monster tonight. Really seen it.
And she hadn't run.
And that terrified them both.