The breaking of a Saint
I didn't call an Uber. I followed the scent of sandalwood and the sound of a roaring engine to his private residence—a glass-walled fortress overlooking the city. When I reached the door of his penthouse, I didn't knock. I pushed it open. The sound was the first thing that hit me. The crash of crystal against marble. Dante was in the center of the living room, his shirt torn open, his hair a mess. A decanter of expensive bourbon lay shattered at his feet. He looked up, his eyes bloodshot, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated agony. "Get out," he rasped, his voice cracking. "I told you to go home, Elena. I’m dangerous. Can't you see that? I’m destroying everything I touch." "You aren't destroying me," I said, my voice steady as I closed the door behind me and locked it. The click echo
- Writer
