MURDER, SHE DESIRED

Eva Torres clocked in at 10:02 p.m., late by two minutes, though no one ever noticed. That was the beauty of cleaning after hours-no bosses, no coworkers, no questions. Just the echo of her mop sloshing over marble floors and the hum of fluorescent lights above. She liked it that way.

The skyscraper's 43rd floor was silent, its glass walls reflecting the city's glittering skyline. She started in the hallway, headphones in, a true crime podcast droning in one ear. Ironic, maybe. But murder didn't scare her anymore-not the fictional kind, anyway. Real life, real pain? That was different.

At 11:06 p.m., she pushed her cart toward the executive wing. She hated that floor. Too clean. Too quiet. Too... watched. Something about the long corridor of black-tinted glass doors made her feel like someone was always just behind them, breathing on the other side.

That night, one of those doors was open.

Room 4310. CEO conference suite. Lights on.

That wasn't normal.

Eva paused at the threshold. "Hello?"

No answer.

She stepped in, fingers tightening around the handle of her cart. The room smelled off-not like bleach or paper or wood polish. Something sharper. Metallic.

Then she saw it. A man slumped in the leather chair at the end of the table. Eyes wide. A bloom of crimson soaking his white shirt.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Blood.

Real. Blood.

And then-

A sound behind her. The door clicking shut.

She spun, and there he was.

Tall. Dark suit. Brooding eyes that cut through her like ice. And in his hand, a gun.

Time stopped.

They stared at each other, frozen in the stillness between predator and prey.

But he didn't raise the weapon.

He stepped forward instead, calm as a shadow, his voice low and rich.

"You weren't supposed to see that."

Her knees trembled.

"I didn't. I mean- I won't say anything- I'll leave-"

He moved closer. Close enough that she could see the fine cut of his jaw, the slick of blood on his knuckles.

"You're the cleaner, right?"

She nodded, heart slamming in her chest.

His eyes dropped briefly to the name stitched on her uniform: Eva.

"Well, Eva," he said, brushing past her with maddening composure, "you just became part of a very messy night."

She turned to run.

He caught her wrist.

And with that touch-fire, fear, desire-everything changed.

Her breath came in shallow gasps. She yanked at her wrist, but his grip was firm-not painful, just... absolute.

"I didn't see anything," Eva whispered. "I swear."

Dominic tilted his head, studying her like she was a puzzle he hadn't expected to find. "You saw everything," he said softly. "And you walked into the middle of something that doesn't let witnesses walk away."

She flinched.

"I didn't mean to," she stammered. "I don't even know who that guy is."

"That's the problem," he murmured. "You don't have to."

A beat of silence stretched between them. Her eyes darted toward the door. Could she make it? Her legs felt like rubber. His grip tightened just enough to remind her-no, she couldn't.

He exhaled, as if deciding something, and slowly let go of her wrist.

She didn't run. She wanted to, but something rooted her to the spot.

Was it fear?

Or something more dangerous?

Dominic walked past her to the dead man's body, crouching beside it with eerie calm. He wiped the handle of the gun clean with a monogrammed handkerchief and tucked it inside his jacket. He moved like this was routine. Like it didn't even register anymore.

"Who are you?" she asked before she could stop herself.

He glanced over his shoulder, one brow raised. "You really want to know?"

Eva swallowed. "No. Yes. I don't know."

He rose to his full height, taking two slow steps toward her. "Then I'll make it easy for you, Eva."

The way he said her name made her shiver.

"You forget tonight happened. You walk out of here. You go home. You throw that uniform in the trash and get yourself a new job. Somewhere far from this building. Far from me."

"And if I don't?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Something flickered in his eyes. Not anger. Not threat.

Something darker. More curious.

"Then maybe you're not as innocent as you look."

The words sent a chill down her spine.

But it wasn't just fear prickling at her skin.

It was the fire in his gaze. The hunger barely restrained. The way danger clung to him like cologne, intoxicating and suffocating all at once.

He turned, hand on the doorknob.

"I'll give you one chance to walk away, Eva," he said without looking back. "Take it."

And then he was gone.

The room was silent again.

Except for the thundering of her heartbeat.

And the part of her-buried deep, dark, and trembling-that didn't want to run

*Dominic Moretti didn't believe in accidents. But she felt like one.*

He drove in silence, the city lights flashing across his windshield like strobe lights on a stage he never asked to be part of. His gloved hands gripped the steering wheel, though the blood had already dried beneath his cuffs.

The job had been clean. Quick. Predictable.

Until her.

A janitor, of all things. The kind of person meant to be invisible. But she hadn't been. She'd walked in with those wide brown eyes and a heart beating loud enough for him to hear across the room.

She hadn't screamed.

That was what stuck with him most.

She'd *looked* at him. *Really* looked.

And for a moment, the silence between them hadn't been about fear.

It had been something else. Something that pulled.

He turned down a side street and parked. Killed the engine.

Then sat there, unmoving.

He should've ended it. He'd ended people for less. But there was something about the way she shook without begging. The way she met his gaze but never challenged it. She wasn't stupid. But she wasn't defiant either.

She was... different.

*Eva*.

He hadn't meant to remember her name, but there it was, stitched into his memory like it had been on her chest.

He ran a hand through his hair and let out a breath.

This was sloppy. Emotional. Two things he'd built his life avoiding. His father would've put a bullet in her head without blinking. His uncle would've made a show of it.

Dominic let her walk.

Because of instinct?

Because of attraction?

Or because he wanted to see what she'd do next?

He leaned back in the driver's seat, staring at the roof of the car.

If she talked, he'd hear about it within the hour. He had people in every precinct, every radio wave.

But deep down, he already knew-she wouldn't talk.

That wasn't fear in her eyes.

It was curiosity.

And curiosity, he knew, could be more dangerous than fear

He lit a cigarette, something he rarely did. The glow of the cherry lit up his sharp features as he exhaled slowly into the stillness.

She hadn't screamed.

And now, she was in his head.

Dominic had learned early in this business that feelings were liabilities. Curiosity? Deadly. Fascination? Worse. The first time you let someone live for any reason other than strategy, you lost the game.

He didn't lose.

But there was something in her-something that made him hesitate.

She reminded him of a life he hadn't lived. Of softness in a world full of steel. Of warmth in a business where warmth got you killed.

And still, he let her go.

Why?

Because her eyes didn't judge him.

Because when she looked at the body, she didn't cry.

Because somewhere in her, he saw darkness she hadn't explored yet.

And God help him-he wanted to be the one to drag her into it.

He flicked the cigarette out the window and reached for his phone. One press. A voice answered almost immediately.

"Yeah, boss?"

"Find out everything you can about an Eva Torres. Works night shift at Peregrine Tower. Cleaning crew."

A pause.

"You want her dead?"

He stared out the windshield.

"No," Dominic said slowly. "Not yet."

Back at her apartment, she'd be pacing. He could picture it. Hands shaking, mind racing, wondering what he was going to do. Wondering if she was already marked.

She was.

But not how she thought.

Dominic leaned back, a slow smirk creeping onto his face.

She had no idea what she'd walked into.

And she had no idea how much he already wanted her .

Eva hadn't slept.

Not even for a second.

She'd spent the night curled up on her worn couch, still in her cleaning uniform, eyes glued to the door. Every creak of the floor above, every passing siren, made her flinch. She'd half expected someone-him-to come back for her. Or worse, send someone else.

But no one did.

By 6:00 a.m., the silence became the loudest thing in the room.

She stood in the mirror, brushing her teeth with a trembling hand. Her face was pale, her eyes sunken from fear and insomnia. The toothbrush paused mid-motion.

*You're the cleaner, right?*

*You just became part of a very messy night.*

His voice echoed in her head, low and lethal-and disturbingly smooth. There was something about the way he looked at her that didn't match the weapon in his hand. Something that felt... deliberate. Controlled. Hungry.

She turned the faucet off. The silence screamed louder.

She should go to the police. She *knew* that.

But what could she say?

She hadn't even called 911. Hell, she hadn't even touched her phone. She didn't know who the dead man was, or who Dominic Moretti really was-at least not on paper. But every instinct in her gut told her this wasn't a normal murder.

It was *organized*.

Professional.

And walking into a precinct might only paint a bigger target on her back.

Her fingers hovered over her phone. She opened a browser. Typed in the name she wasn't supposed to remember.

**Dominic Moretti.**

It auto-filled before she hit enter.

The search results were vague, full of corporate jargon and charity galas. CEO of Moretti Development. Son of late real estate mogul Vincent Moretti. Clean record. Too clean.

But on page three, buried between an article about zoning permits and a puff piece in *Forbes*, she saw a photo that made her breath hitch.

It was him.

And behind him, at a party, stood a man with half his face cropped out-wearing the same gray suit she saw soaked in blood last night.

Eva closed the laptop.

*He's real.*

*He's powerful.*

*And he let you live.*

Her heart pounded.

Why?

She wasn't special. She was a cleaner with student loan debt and a leaky faucet. She didn't belong in that world.

So why did she feel like it was pulling her in?

A sharp knock at the door made her freeze.

Three slow, spaced-out taps.

She stepped forward, barefoot, stomach clenched so tight she thought she might throw up. She looked through the peephole-

And stopped breathing.

A single white envelope sat on the floor outside her door.

No name. No return address.

She waited. One minute. Then two.

Nothing.

She opened the door.

The hallway was empty.

She picked up the envelope with shaking fingers and slid her thumb under the seal.

Inside was a single card. Thick, expensive paper. One line, typed in clean black ink:

**"Curiosity is dangerous, Eva. But I like it."**

No signature.

Just the scent of cologne still clinging to the card.

The same one he wore.

Dominic Moretti.

He'd found her.

And now, she knew:

She wasn't just a witness anymore.

She was *watched*.

Eva stared at the card for a long time.

"Curiosity is dangerous, Eva. But I like it."

Her name in print looked too deliberate. Too personal. He wanted her to know this wasn't a coincidence.

She went to the window, pulling back the curtain just an inch. Her apartment faced the street-mostly empty at this hour except for a parked black car across the road.

Tinted windows. Engine running.

*Was it him?*

She let the curtain fall and backed away from the window.

This wasn't just intimidation.

This was a message.

He didn't want her to be afraid. Not really. He wanted her to know she was being watched-and *chosen*. Like he'd placed a mark on her, not to kill... but to claim.

She should be terrified.

But deep down, in a place she didn't want to name, the fear tangled with something hotter. Something reckless.

He hadn't threatened her. Not directly. He could've, easily. He could've sent someone to drag her from her bed. He could've made her vanish.

Instead, he left her a card like an invitation.

*I like it.*

God help her, but something in her liked it too.

She spent the day trying to act normal.

She went to the grocery store, bought eggs she didn't want, walked the long way home to see if she was being followed. Every time she turned around, no one was there. But the feeling lingered.

By 9:00 p.m., she was pacing her apartment again.

Her shift had been covered-someone had texted from work saying she was off rotation for the next week. No explanation.

Eva hadn't told them to do that.

Someone else had.

She sat on her bed, phone in hand, staring at the name she'd saved after her search.

**Dominic Moretti.**

She didn't have his number.

But something told her she wouldn't need to.

He'd come to her again.

And when he did, she had no idea whether she was going to run... or open the door.