Dante was there with a gun in his hand, a dead man lying on the floor, and another man trembling the corner like a leaf in the storm wind. The blood lay beneath the body, heavy and spreading, like spilt wine upon the costly marble, which never could be washed out.
He looked at the door and found me standing there paralysed in the doorway, and his face at once turned to utter rage. His eyes, which were already dark and dangerous, became something almost inhuman – an anger so strong it seemed to emit heat.
“What the f**k are you doing here?” His voice was low and deadly, and he walked towards me in a deliberate manner. Every movement echoed throughout the room, mingling with the sound in my ears and the pounding of my own heart.
I stepped back; my body moved before my thought, and yet the
