Chapter 17: The Sentinel's Hunt

Elena couldn't sleep.

She'd been staring at her ceiling for the past two hours, watching shadows shift across the cracked plaster while her mind replayed the evening on an endless loop. Dante's penthouse. The champagne. The way he'd looked at her like she was the only person in the world who mattered. And then that phone call, the way his entire demeanor had changed in an instant, the cold mask sliding back into place as he'd practically shoved her out the door with barely an explanation.

Something came up. Marcus will take you home. I'm sorry.

Sorry. As if that explained the sudden ice in his eyes, the tension that had turned his shoulders to stone, the way he'd looked past her like she'd already ceased to exist.

Elena rolled onto her side, punching her pillow with more force than necessary. She shouldn't care. She barely knew the man, and what she did know should have sent her running in the opposite direction. He was controlling, secretive, and far too comfortable operating in moral gray areas that made her deeply uncomfortable.

But God help her, she couldn't stop thinking about him.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. 2:47 AM. Who the hell was texting at this hour?

She grabbed it, squinting at the bright screen. Unknown number.

Stay inside tonight. Lock your doors. Trust me.

Elena sat up, her heart suddenly pounding. The text had come from a burner number, no contact information, nothing to trace. But somehow she knew. The tone, the commanding brevity, the assumption that she'd simply obey.

Dante.

She was typing a response when another message came through.

I mean it, Elena. Whatever you hear, don't go outside.

A chill ran down her spine. She moved to her window, careful to stay behind the curtain as she peered down at the street below. The neighborhood was quiet, streetlights casting pools of sickly yellow across cracked pavement. A few cars lined the curb. Nothing seemed out of place.

Then she saw them.

Three men, moving with purpose down the sidewalk across from her building. Even from three floors up, she could see they weren't just late night pedestrians. They moved wrong, too coordinated, too alert. One of them kept glancing at something in his hand. A phone, maybe, or a photo.

They stopped directly across from her building.

Elena's breath caught. She fumbled for her phone, ready to call 911, when she noticed something else. A shadow detaching itself from the alley beside the bodega on the corner. Darker than the surrounding darkness. Moving with predatory grace.

The figure wore black from head to toe, face obscured by some kind of mask. And he was heading straight for the three men.

Oh my God.

It happened so fast Elena almost missed it. The figure in black closed the distance in seconds, moving with a fluidity that seemed impossible. The first man went down without a sound, crumpling to the pavement. The second barely had time to turn before he was slammed against the brick wall hard enough that Elena heard the impact from her window.

The third man pulled a gun.

Elena's hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp. This was insane. This was happening right outside her building, and she was frozen, watching like it was some kind of movie instead of real life unfolding three stories below.

The figure in black didn't hesitate. He moved inside the gunman's reach with shocking speed, one hand deflecting the weapon while the other struck with precision. The gun clattered to the ground. Three seconds later, the third man joined his companions in an unconscious heap on the sidewalk.

The Sentinel stood there for a moment, surveying his work. Then he looked up, directly at Elena's window.

She jerked back from the curtain, her heart hammering so hard she thought it might break through her ribs. Had he seen her? Could he possibly have known she was watching?

When she dared to peek again, he was gone. Just disappeared, melted back into the shadows like he'd never been there at all. The three men lay sprawled on the pavement, but even as Elena watched, they began to stir. One of them rolled over, groaning. Another pushed himself up to his hands and knees.

They weren't dead. Just... neutralized.

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. Someone must have called it in. The men on the ground seemed to realize this at the same time, because they scrambled to their feet with surprising speed for people who'd just been knocked unconscious. Within thirty seconds, they'd vanished into the maze of alleys that crisscrossed the neighborhood.

Elena stood at her window, trembling, trying to process what she'd just witnessed. The Sentinel. The vigilante she'd been researching, the one whose existence Dante had dismissed so casually, had just taken down three armed men outside her building.

Three men who'd been looking at something in their hands. A photo, maybe.

Her photo?

The implications hit her like a freight train. Those men had been looking for her. They'd been standing outside her building at three in the morning, armed and clearly up to no good. And the Sentinel had stopped them.

How had he known? How had he gotten here in time?

Her phone buzzed again.

They won't be back tonight. Get some sleep.

Elena stared at the message, her mind racing. Dante's warning text had come at 2:47. The attack had happened maybe ten minutes later. That meant he'd known. He'd somehow known that men were coming for her, and he'd warned her to stay inside.

But how could he have known unless...

No. That was impossible. Dante Salvatore was a billionaire CEO, not a masked vigilante prowling the streets at night. The idea was absurd.

Except it would explain so much. The scars on his body. The way he moved, that coiled grace that suggested serious training. His obsession with the community center, with protecting her neighborhood. The mysterious phone calls and sudden disappearances.

Those eyes. The Sentinel's eyes, visible through the mask for just a moment before he'd vanished.

Eyes she'd stared into over champagne just hours earlier.

"No," Elena whispered to her empty apartment. "That's crazy. I'm crazy. I'm seeing connections that aren't there because I'm exhausted and scared and—"

Her phone rang, the sudden sound making her jump. Dante's name flashed across the screen.

She answered without thinking. "Hello?"

"Are you alright?" His voice was rough, slightly breathless, like he'd been running.

"I'm fine. I... Dante, there were men outside my building. I saw—" She stopped herself, suddenly uncertain how much to reveal. "I saw the Sentinel. He was here."

Silence on the other end of the line. It stretched out for so long Elena thought the connection had dropped.

"Dante?"

"I know." His voice was carefully neutral. "Marcus has contacts in the police department. He called me when the report came in. That's why I texted you. I was worried."

It was a perfectly reasonable explanation. So why didn't she believe it?

"Who were they?" Elena asked. "Those men. Who were they looking for?"

Another pause, shorter this time. "We don't know yet. Could be random. This isn't exactly the safest neighborhood at three in the morning."

"They weren't random." Elena moved away from the window, pacing her small apartment. "They were looking for something specific. Someone specific."

"Elena." Dante's voice took on that commanding tone she was beginning to recognize. "I need you to pack a bag. Marcus is on his way to pick you up. You're staying at my place until we figure out what's going on."

"Excuse me? You can't just—"

"Yes, I can. And I am. This isn't negotiable. Those men might come back, and next time the Sentinel might not be there to stop them."

"The Sentinel who you claimed was probably just an urban legend?" Elena couldn't keep the edge out of her voice. "The one you were so dismissive of at dinner?"

Dead silence.

"Dante, how did you know to warn me? How did you know they were coming?"

"I have resources. Security contacts. People who monitor—"

"Bullshit." The word came out harder than she intended, but Elena was done playing games. "Tell me the truth. Tell me how you really knew."

"Elena." His voice had gone dangerously soft. "Pack your bag. Marcus will be there in fifteen minutes. We'll talk about this tomorrow, when you're safe and we've both had some sleep."

"We'll talk about it now, or I'm not going anywhere with Marcus."

"You're being unreasonable."

"Am I being unreasonable? I just watched a masked vigilante beat up three men outside my apartment after receiving a mysterious warning text from you. I think I'm entitled to some answers."

She heard him exhale, a long, controlled breath. "Not over the phone. Please, Elena. Trust me for one more night. Come to the penthouse, get some rest, and tomorrow I'll explain everything. I promise."

There was something in his voice, beneath the command and control. Something that sounded almost like fear.

"Everything?" Elena pressed. "No more secrets? No more convenient excuses and mysterious phone calls?"

"Everything," Dante agreed. "But only if you're somewhere safe when I tell you. Which means you need to leave your apartment. Now."

Elena looked around her tiny studio, at the life she'd built here, modest and hard won. Every instinct screamed at her to stay, to not let this man dictate her choices, to maintain the independence she'd fought so hard for.

But those men had been outside her building. Looking for her. And the Sentinel had known.

Dante had known.

"Fine," she said finally. "But tomorrow, no more lies. I want the truth about who you really are."

"Tomorrow," Dante promised. "Get your things. And Elena? Thank you. For trusting me."

He hung up before she could respond.

Elena stood in the middle of her apartment, phone clutched in her hand, and wondered what the hell she was doing. Every rational thought told her to call the police, file a report, handle this through proper channels.

But proper channels hadn't saved Miguel. Proper channels hadn't stopped the violence that plagued her neighborhood every single day. Proper channels didn't work when you were fighting against systems designed to fail people like her.

Maybe it was time to try something different.

She grabbed her duffel bag and started throwing clothes into it, her hands shaking slightly. Tomorrow she'll get answers. Tomorrow she'd find out who Dante Salvatore really was, and what he was hiding behind those careful masks and expensive suits.

Tomorrow she'd learn the truth about the Sentinel.

She just hoped she was ready for it.