Chapter 2 – Protection or Prison
1124 Words
Christina didn’t sleep that night.
She lay on her side, still fully dressed, staring at the ceiling of her tiny studio apartment in the East Village. Her heart beat slower now, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw him. The blood on the pavement. The gunshot echoing in the dark. His eyes locking on hers.
Dante.
She hadn’t even known his name then, but his face was burned into her memory with terrifying precision. That commanding presence. The calm power. The cold edge in his voice.
She thought she’d imagined the part where he let her go. Men like him didn’t do mercy. But maybe—just maybe—he had.
The sun rose, but she barely noticed. She dragged herself out of bed, washed her face twice, and pulled her curls into a shaky bun. By 9:30, she was on her way to campus. She tried to focus on her criminology lecture—“Power, Manipulation, and Organized Crime”—but her hands trembled, and the irony was unbearable.
On her walk home that afternoon, everything felt… wrong.
Too quiet. Too still.
She paused at the corner of her street. Two men were standing outside her building.
Black coats. Dark suits. Sunglasses.
Christina’s stomach dropped.
She considered turning around. Running. Calling someone.
Who would she even call?
Her legs kept walking even as her mind screamed to stop. As she reached the entrance, one of the men stepped in front of her.
“Miss Andrianakis?” he asked.
Her mouth went dry. “Who’s asking?”
“Mr. Moretti wants a word.”
That name. Moretti.
She hadn’t known it until that moment, but now it made her blood run cold.
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she said quickly. “Get away from me.”
“No harm will come to you,” the man said. “He just wants to talk. Five minutes.”
She hesitated.
Then a black SUV rolled up to the curb.
The rear door opened.
And there he was.
Dante.
Dressed in charcoal gray, clean-shaven, composed. Not a speck of violence on him, but he radiated danger. Like a lion in a silk suit.
“Miss Andrianakis,” he called, his voice smooth as smoke. “I’d prefer to speak in private, not on the sidewalk. Please.”
People were watching now. A couple passing by. A man with a dog. The tension hung thick in the air.
Christina looked at the SUV, then back at him.
She swallowed. “If I come with you… you promise I’ll be brought back?”
He nodded once. “Safe and unharmed.”
Against her better judgment, she climbed in.
⸻
The inside of the SUV was quiet. Leather seats. Tinted windows. Subtle scent of cologne and power.
Dante sat beside her, legs crossed, one hand resting on the armrest, the other on his lap.
“You’re braver than most,” he said.
Christina stared ahead. “I’m not brave. I’m terrified.”
He let out a short, humorless laugh. “Smart girl.”
A pause settled.
Then she turned to him. “Why didn’t you kill me?”
Most men would flinch. He didn’t.
“Because you didn’t run fast enough,” he said dryly. Then, with more weight: “And because you weren’t supposed to be there.”
“I didn’t choose to be there,” she snapped. “I was walking home.”
“From now on,” he said, “you’ll take a different route.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You think you can tell me where to walk?”
“I think I’m trying to keep you alive.”
Silence.
“I’m not going to the police,” she said. “I don’t want anything to do with this. With you.”
Dante looked at her then — really looked.
“I believe you,” he said quietly. “But belief doesn’t matter. Perception does. My enemies saw your face. If they think you’re important to me, even by accident… you become a target.”
“I’m not important to you.”
He didn’t answer that.
Instead, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re going to stay at a safe location for a few days. Monitored. No contact with anyone. Just until the situation cools.”
“And if I refuse?”
He didn’t blink. “Then I’ll have you followed. Watched. Whether you like it or not.”
Her jaw clenched. “So this is a prison.”
Dante shrugged. “Or protection. Depends how you look at it.”
“And what if I tell the police?”
Now he looked at her like she was made of glass. Breakable.
“You’re smart enough to know what happens if you do.”
Christina’s throat tightened.
He wasn’t threatening her. Not directly. But the message was clear.
She stared out the window as the SUV turned downtown.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“My building. Top floor. You’ll be safe there.”
“Great,” she muttered. “Locked in a tower like Rapunzel.”
“Only if Rapunzel had a panic button and a security detail,” he said coolly.
⸻
His penthouse was exactly what she imagined: sleek, minimal, expensive. Black marble floors. Soft lighting. Giant windows with a skyline view that stole her breath.
“I’ll have food sent up,” Dante said, removing his coat. “You can order whatever you want. My assistant will bring you clothes. There’s a spare bedroom down the hall. Make yourself comfortable.”
She stood in the doorway, arms crossed. “And what about you?”
“I have work.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You’re just leaving me here?”
Dante walked past her toward the front door. “You’ll have a guard outside the apartment at all times. You’re not a prisoner, Christina. But if you try to leave…” He turned slightly. “I won’t stop you. I’ll just make sure someone follows you.”
He opened the door to leave — then paused.
“By the way,” he added, glancing back at her. “Thank you.”
She frowned. “For what?”
“For not screaming when you saw what I did.”
She stared at him, unsure if he was mocking her — or if that was the closest thing to gratitude a man like him could give.
And just like that, he was gone.
⸻
Alone, Christina stood in the middle of a stranger’s penthouse — a stranger who had executed someone in front of her just twelve hours ago — and realized something terrifying.
She didn’t feel fear.
She felt curiosity.
- Writer
