Chapter 2 - The Men at the Door
“How?” Elena whispered.
Lucian’s gaze moved toward the bathroom door.
“Because I left a trail.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one that matters right now.”
The footsteps stopped outside her apartment.
Elena’s blood turned cold.
Lucian reached for the bathroom counter, trying to push himself upright. His face had gone pale beneath the olive tone of his skin, and sweat shone along his brow.
“You need to hide,” she said.
“I am hiding.”
“You’re bleeding through two towels and half my bath mat.”
“I’ve had worse accommodations.”
“Congratulations.”
A fist struck the apartment door.
“Police,” a voice called. “Open up.”
Elena’s eyes flashed toward the hallway.
Lucian’s expression hardened. “Those are not police.”
“You know them?”
“I know the kind of men who borrow uniforms.”
Another knock came, harder.
“Ma’am, we need to verify that you’re safe.”
Elena looked at the small bathroom, the blood-stained towels, the open medical kit, and the stranger who had somehow climbed through her kitchen window carrying enough injuries to die in her apartment.
Then she made a decision.
“Get under the bed.”
Lucian stared at her.
“You want me to what?”
“You heard me.”
“I am six-foot-three.”
“You are also losing blood. Pick one problem.”
The sound that came from him might have been a laugh if he had not been in so much pain.
Then the doorknob rattled.
Elena grabbed his arm and guided him through the dark bedroom. The old bed stood against the far wall, its faded quilt hanging nearly to the floor. There was just enough space beneath it for boxes, a suitcase, and possibly a wounded man who had no pride left to protect.
Lucian lowered himself carefully.
His shoulder caught the frame.
He hissed.
“Quiet,” Elena whispered.
“You’re giving orders to a man you met twenty minutes ago.”
“You climbed through my window and bled on my floor. We’re moving fast.”
She shoved the suitcase aside and pulled the quilt down.
Lucian’s hand caught her wrist.
His grip was weak but deliberate.
“If they enter,” he whispered, “you run.”
Elena looked at him.
“No.”
His eyes narrowed. “No?”
“I have spent fourteen months running from men who think fear gives them permission to control a room.” Her voice remained low, but it did not shake. “I am not doing it tonight.”
For a moment, he simply looked at her.
Then he released her wrist.
The knock came again.
Elena walked to the door.
She checked the chain.
Deadbolt first.
Chain second.
Then she opened it three inches.
The same man stood outside. The false police officer. His partner waited behind him near the stairwell, one hand resting casually beneath his jacket.
The first man smiled.
“Ma’am, we just need to ask a few questions.”
“You already asked them.”
“We received another report.”
“From who?”
“A neighbor.”
“Which neighbor?”
His smile thinned.
“Ma’am, you seem nervous.”
“I work trauma nights. I’m tired. There’s a difference.”
The man leaned closer to the gap.
“We heard a man’s voice.”
“You heard the television.”
“You don’t have a television on.”
Elena’s pulse jumped.
Then, from inside the apartment, a loud crash sounded from the kitchen.
The officer’s eyes sharpened.
Elena did not turn around.
Neither did he.
“Was that your television too?” he asked.
She forced herself to sigh.
“That was my cat.”
“You have a cat?”
“No.”
The man stared at her.
Elena stared back.
Then a new voice came from down the hallway.
“Is there a problem here?”
The officer turned.
A woman in a gray robe stood outside apartment 3B. Mrs. Alvarez, Elena’s elderly neighbor, held a cordless phone in one hand and a baseball bat in the other.
“I called the real police,” Mrs. Alvarez said. “They said nobody was sent to this building.”
The false officer’s smile disappeared.
His partner shifted toward the stairs.
Elena saw it—the movement beneath the jacket, the shape of a weapon.
Mrs. Alvarez raised the bat. “I got grandchildren in this city. You boys got about five seconds.”
The first man looked at Elena one final time.
His expression had changed completely.
No warmth. No pretense.
Just a promise.
“We’ll be back,” he said.
Then both men turned and disappeared down the staircase.
Elena shut the door, locked it, chained it, and pressed both palms against the wood.
Behind her, the kitchen window rattled in the wind.
Under the bed, Lucian Moretti said quietly, “Your neighbor is brave.”
“She’s terrifying.”
“She saved your life.”
“She has done that before.”
Lucian was silent.
Elena turned around.
“Come out.”
He did not move.
“Lucian.”
Still nothing.
She dropped to her knees and lifted the edge of the quilt.
His eyes were closed.
Blood had soaked through the bandage at his abdomen.
“Damn it,” she whispered.
She pulled him out from beneath the bed with more effort than she expected. He was heavy, deadweight now, his body burning with fever. Elena dragged him across the floor, got one arm over her shoulders, and hauled him back into the bathroom.
“You don’t get to pass out,” she muttered. “Not after making me lie about a nonexistent cat.”
Lucian’s eyes fluttered open.
“You lied badly.”
“You’re welcome.”
She checked the wound.
The stitches had partially torn.
“Those men did this?” she asked.
Lucian looked away.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I was in the wrong car.”
“That is definitely not the truth.”
His mouth tightened.
Elena reached for fresh gauze.
“You don’t have to tell me everything,” she said. “But I need enough truth to know whether my apartment is about to become a crime scene.”
Lucian watched her hands as she worked.
“My name is Lucian Moretti,” he said.
“I know.”
“My family owns Moretti Maritime.”
Elena stopped.
Everyone in Lakehurst knew Moretti Maritime. The company controlled shipping terminals, warehouses, freight contracts, and enough political influence to make city officials nervous.
But everyone also knew the rumors.
Money moved through the company too cleanly.
Men vanished too quietly.
And the Moretti name was spoken with caution.
“You’re that Lucian Moretti,” Elena said.
“Yes.”
“The one the papers call a businessman.”
“They are being polite.”
“Are you mafia?”
Lucian’s expression did not change.
“I’m not sure labels matter when men are trying to kill you.”
“They matter to me.”
He looked directly at her.
“Yes,” he said. “My family has done terrible things.”
Elena’s hands tightened around the gauze.
“And you?”
“I have done things I am not proud of.”
The honesty startled her more than denial would have.
“Then why are they after you?”
“Because I was trying to stop someone from doing worse.”
Elena almost laughed.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
The rain hammered against the windows.
Lucian’s breathing grew shallower.
Elena looked at the blood beneath him.
Then at the locked door.
Then at the prepaid phone hidden beneath her sink.
Her old survival instinct screamed at her to run.
Pack the cash.
Leave before dawn.
Disappear again.
But she looked at the wounded man in her bathroom and knew exactly what would happen if she abandoned him.
He would die.
And something in her refused to become the kind of person who walked away from someone bleeding.
“Fine,” she said.
Lucian’s eyes narrowed. “Fine?”
“You stay until sunrise. Then you leave.”
“You don’t know if they’ll still be outside.”
“Then you leave carefully.”
“Elena—”
“And after that,” she said, cutting him off, “you never come near this building again.”
For the first time that night, Lucian looked almost regretful.
“I wish I could promise that.”
A sound came from the fire escape.
Metal groaning.
Footsteps climbing.
Elena and Lucian both went still.
This time, the men were not at the door.
May you like
They were coming through the window.
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