Blood and Desire

Chapter Five: The Knock at Midnight

Elena’s pulse pounded against her ribs.

The knock at the door wasn’t loud. It wasn’t hurried.

But something about it sent a slow, creeping dread curling through her veins.

Dante went still. Too still.

His height towered over her, his body tense and coiled like a predator sensing a trap.

He turned slightly, his sharp jawline illuminated by the dim light, and pressed a finger to his lips. Silent. Deadly. Commanding.

Elena barely dared to breathe.

Then, another knock.

More insistent this time.

Dante’s hand hovered over the gun at his side. He didn’t move to draw it—not yet—but his entire body was wired with lethal intent.

Elena swallowed hard. "Who is it?" she called out, forcing her voice to sound normal.

A pause.

Then, a man’s voice, smooth and cold. "Miss Elena. Open the door."

Her stomach dropped.

They knew her name.

Dante’s green eyes flicked to hers, dark and unreadable. He saw the fear. He liked it.

"Do exactly as I say," he whispered, his breath warm against her ear. "Or we both die tonight."

Elena gave the smallest nod.

Dante took a step back into the shadows, pressing himself against the wall just beyond the doorway’s view.

Elena’s hands trembled as she reached for the handle. She forced them to steady.

She cracked the door open an inch.

A man stood outside. Tall, dressed in black, his eyes a piercing blue. He had the cold, detached air of someone who had killed before and would do it again.

Behind him, another figure lurked near the staircase, his hand resting on his hip. A gun.

Elena’s throat tightened.

The blue-eyed man offered her a smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.

"Apologies for the late visit," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "But I believe you have something that belongs to us."

Elena’s grip tightened on the door. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

The man’s smile widened, but his patience thinned.

"Let’s not play games," he murmured. "Dante Moretti is here, isn’t he?"

A flicker of movement.

Before Elena could react, a hand shot out from the shadows.

Dante moved fast—too fast.

One second, the man was standing there, calm and composed.

The next, Dante had him by the throat.

The blue-eyed man’s feet lifted off the ground, his hands clawing at Dante’s iron grip.

Dante leaned in, his voice a lethal whisper. "You knocked on the wrong door, amico."

Then—a sickening crack.

The body dropped.

Elena barely stifled a gasp.

The second man fumbled for his gun—too slow.

Dante was already on him.

A flash of silver—a knife—slashed through the dimly lit hallway.

The second man gurgled, stumbling back, clutching at his throat. Blood dripped between his fingers.

Elena slammed the door shut, her breath coming fast and ragged.

Her apartment was dead silent.

Dante stood in the center of the room, calm as ever, wiping his blade clean on the hem of his ruined shirt.

His green eyes lifted to hers.

And then—he smiled.

"Looks like we’ll be staying together a little longer, little dove."

Elena pressed her back against the door, her heart hammering.

She should be horrified.

She should be terrified.

But the only thing her mind could focus on was the way he had moved—the effortless, brutal precision.

And the way her body had thrilled at the danger of it all.