Donatella1212 Stories

Prologue: New York City, 2:47 AM The apartment smelled like blood. Ethan Cross stood in the center of the room, heart pounding, breath ragged. The dead man lay at his feet. A knife was in Ethan's hand. His grip was tight, his knuckles white. The problem was-he had no memory of picking it up. His pulse roared in his ears. He stepped back, nearly slipping in the pool of blood spreading across the hardwood floor. His phone buzzed. He looked down. A single text message. Unknown Number: "Run." Then-a knock at the door. A voice outside. Deep. Controlled. "Ethan Cross. We know you're in there. Open the door." Panic surged through him. He didn't do this. He couldn't have. But the knife in his hand told a different story.

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