The Fire burned so fiercely that Elena was tempted to turn around. Get back into the elevator. Confront Vittorio right there, right then. Inside that metal box.
But the Structure was fireproof.
It was armor that didn't melt. Capable of suffocating flames even at the cost of extinguishing all life.
She walked toward the exit.
She reached the fork in the road: office to the right, home to the left.
In that moment of hesitation, she saw the reflection.
In the shop window across the street, Vittorio's figure stood out sharply. He was following her.
She wouldn't give him the advantage of discovering where she lived. And above all, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of thinking she was running to hide under the duvet, blinds drawn, to digest his toxic presence.
She took the road to the office.
There were turnstiles there. Physical barriers that locked intruders out.
She entered the building, reached her office on the third floor, and looked out the window.
Vittorio was still there, on the opposite sidewalk. He knew exactly where to look.
He gave her a wave of his hand. Slow, theatrical.
Elena responded by lifting her chin. A sharp gesture. Devoid of emotion.
Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the city.
Elena called an Uber, just like the night before. She had it enter the building's underground level, eluding any gaze. Had it take her home, leaving her office light on. A beacon in the night. An empty lure for anyone seeking her presence behind that glass.
At home, the torment began.
She got out in front of her door and climbed the stairs with a weight on her chest that wasn't fatigue.
Should she reply? Should she go? Should she stay barricaded in the house? Change cities?
The overthinking was killing her.
"Breathe," she ordered herself.
She got into the shower. The hot water washed away the city dust, but not the thoughts.
When she stepped out, she found herself getting ready for dinner with the autopilot engaged. The mechanical movements of someone walking to the gallows. Or to the altar.
She didn't reply to the message.
She slipped on a pair of black jeans. 50s cut. Tight and stretchy. Leaving her ankles bare.
From the walk-in closet, she took a black cashmere sweater. The front was monastic, high-necked right up to the chin. The back opened in a vertiginous plunge that left her back entirely bare, down to the small of her back.
Dichotomous. Like her.
She looked in the mirror. She looked like a dark version of Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction.
Her gaze fell on her shoes. She saw the empty space left by the pumps abandoned on the asphalt the night before.
A sign.
She would never run barefoot again.
She pulled on her running sneakers. Black, technical, brutal.
They clashed horribly with the elegance of the cashmere. They were a declaration of war.
She put on her long coat and stepped out into the cold night.
Vittorio had shared his location with her, despite her silence. They lived incredibly close, a statistical coincidence that reeked of destiny. Or of a mockery.
She decided to walk.
Every step built a piece of the Structure. Every subsequent step, the Fire eroded one.
She arrived at the front door strangely unprepared.
She rang the bell.
No answer. Just the dry buzz of the door clicking open.
Stupid, arrogant man. How am I supposed to know which floor to go to?
She didn't give him the satisfaction of ringing again. Started up the stairs. Convinced her instinct would guide her.
And so it was.
On the third floor, she saw a door ajar.
A silent invitation.
Elena walked down the hallway, avoiding the stairwell light that would have revealed her arrival. The wolf moved like a panther.
She arrived at the threshold. Rested her hand on the handle but didn't push.
It was in that moment that Vittorio seemed to scent her presence from the other side of the wood.
The door opened completely.
Vittorio appeared in the doorway with that disarming smile. That of the Lawyer who faces the world every day and always wins. But tonight, behind that smile, there was something crooked. Something in precarious balance.
"Welcome," Vittorio said, stepping aside.
Elena entered under the warm light of the hallway.
He shot her a quick glance, analyzing her outfit. Elena caught a subtle disappointment in his eyes: he expected a woman dressed to seduce, not to fight.
"May I?" he asked, indicating the coat.
She remained motionless. Leaving him the honor, and the surprise, of discovering the truth.
When the fabric slid off, revealing her bare back, she heard Vittorio's imperceptible sigh.
Gloating. He was pleased to have discovered the other side of the coin.
Then his gaze dropped. He saw the running sneakers.
Vittorio laughed. A low, husky laugh.
"An interesting choice," he said.
"Practical," Elena replied. "In case I need to get away fast."
His smile stiffened for a fraction of a second. He didn't answer. He turned.
"In the kitchen."
Elena followed him. And in that short journey began a violent, silent dance over who could fill the room more with their presence.
The kitchen was a temple of steel and dark marble, lit by soft lights.
Elena leaned against the counter. The smell in the air was unmistakable.
"Lamb tonight?" she said, innocently. "Interesting. Just like the last meal of the Lamb Killer's victims."
Pause. She smiled.
"Or is it just a coincidence?"
Vittorio's jaw tightened imperceptibly.
"It's a classic," he replied, turning toward the oven. "Appreciated for centuries."
"Of course," Elena said. "Especially by killers with an aesthetic sense."
He stopped. He turned slowly.
"Are you insinuating something?"
"I'm just noting," she replied, holding his gaze. "That for someone who defines himself as an aesthete... the choice is predictable. Almost banal."
Vittorio stared at her. He looked for fear in her eyes. He found boredom.
This wounded him more than any accusation.
"Predictable," he repeated, his voice low.
"Yes," Elena said. "I expected something more... original. From you."
She straightened up, turning her back on him as if the conversation no longer merited attention.
She approached the oven and looked inside through the glass.
Lamb. No surprise.
Her eyes slid to the counter. To the knife block.
Two were missing.
One was on the cutting board, dirty with aromatic herbs.
Of the second, no trace.
She felt his presence behind her. His hot breath on her neck.
The shiver burned the Structure down completely. No click. The brain shut off. There was no more time for internal dialogues.
Now it was only Fire.
"You walked into the den without watching your back, Elena," Vittorio whispered, his voice very close to her ear, a handle pressing against her side. "Typical of the rash prey. Clueless."
She didn't move a millimeter.
Instead, with exasperating slowness, she tilted her head back. Letting her nape brush against his shoulder.
She was offering him her jugular.
Inside her, the blood roared. But her voice came out like crystal.
"Acute observation," she murmured. "But wrong."
"Wrong?"
"I'm not hiding. I'm measuring you."
She turned slightly, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.
"Taking by force is easy. It's for animals."
She smiled.
"True class is waiting for the prey to offer itself."
She stopped. She challenged him.
"Do you have that kind of patience, Vittorio? Or are you a slave to impulse like those you despise?"
She felt his body stiffen.
"Impulse is a calculation error," he replied sharply. "It's amateur stuff."
Vittorio's hand slid from her back to her waist.
He tightened his grip.
Elena felt the cold metal against her side. Hard.
The handle of the second knife.
"I don't make mistakes," he whispered against her neck. "And I'm in no hurry."
He pressed her against him.
"Easy things bore me. I prefer things that defend themselves."
She didn't tremble.
She placed her hand over his, trapping it over the steel.
Cold on hot.
"Defending oneself is one thing," she murmured.
She turned within the circle of his arms. Face to face.
"Counterattacking is another."
She raised her gaze. Ice.
"You speak of victory as if it were guaranteed. But you forget one thing, Counselor."
She brushed the corner of his mouth with her breath.
"Maybe the prey isn't defending itself because it knows it's lethal."
She smiled. Superb.
"Are you sure you have the antidote?"