Lena’s POV
I don’t stop running until my bedroom door slams shut behind me.
My chest burns. I press my back to the wood like it’ll keep the image out.
It doesn’t.
Blood. There was so much blood on his hands, on his shirt, on the concrete, and even on his face — God, his face. I can’t forget that empty look in his eyes, like shooting a man mid-sentence was nothing.
I knew what Dante did. My father’s hands weren’t clean either. I grew up with guards, with whispers, with funerals.
But knowing and seeing are different beasts.
I curl into myself on the edge of the bed. My father’s face flashes in my head, then Dante’s. Both covered in red.
The door opens.
Dante.
He’s clean now. Black button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, no blood, and no gun. If I hadn’t seen i
