Chapter 2
Cecilia
Iwas swimming in the ocean years ago when a wave knocked me over, and I accidentally stepped on a sea urchin. The pain was so sharp, I screamed, but the sound came out muffled under the water. And because I knew no one could hear me, I thought I was going to drown.
That’s how I feel now.
Breathless.
Trapped.
If I were standing, I know I’d shrink back, my knees buckling.
My stalker is every bit present in the room with me, standing with his back to a narrow hallway in my peripheral.
I know it’s him because of those tattoos, those dark roots coiling around his neck and forearms—I’ve seen them before in flashes, on the streets of San Maleno. From when he was following me.
How? How does he always manage to corner me with such ease? And how come he ever only makes himself known to me?
If Cesare has noticed anything wrong, he doesn’t show it—I can’t see him at all from the piano. The crowd murmurs, and I think the director is whispering my name from somewhere beyond the curtain stage left, his voice swallowed by the room.
But I can’t look away from the silhouette of the strange man watching me, nor can I force my hands to move back to the keyboard and play.
My stalker’s eyes, bright green like malachite, seem to gleam under the dim lights that barely illuminate his face. They look otherworldly, from a place that’s void of anything good. The vertical scar that traverses the left side of his face only adds to that.
A cool shiver dances across my shoulders, the air humming with danger. I swallow hard instead of screaming, instead of jolting from this chair and running as far as my legs can take me.
But it’s the gesture he makes that draws out my hesitation. It’s the inked finger that taps his full lips, commanding my silence.
My breathing catches.
Be good, he seems to say, as if he knows I’ll listen. As if he wants this—us—to be our shared secret in a room full of people.
Heart pounding in my ears, I glance to the left at the director, anxiety written all over his battered face.
He waves his arms around like a windmill, trying to get my attention.
We’re only one melody in, and the recital is supposed to go for a full hour.
The thought of sitting up here in the spotlight, alone and vulnerable, almost makes me shake my head to tell him I can’t go on.
I can barely move an inch of my body, let alone get up.
Much to my stalker’s delight, I refrain from making any sudden gestures. Better to play and pretend the monster on my trail isn’t real.
Eventually, I nod, confirming I’ll perform the next piece, but not before I peer out into the crowd again to see the stalker’s lips curve upward.
He knows I won’t scream, and judging by the way he moves to lean against the wall next to him—slowly, intentionally, with the confidence of a man who knows more about the world than the world knows about him—I can tell he’s here to stay.
Heat crawls over my skin, terrifyingly welcome. I don’t want him here, but there’s something about being watched so intensely that makes me want to perform. And his gaze…it drowns me, the color fascinating, hungry for things I can’t begin to explain.
I blink fast, forcing myself to come back to my senses.
My next few notes are grave. Rumor has it, when Rachmaninoff composed this melody, he was inspired by a dream of himself in a coffin at his own funeral. At first, he was terrified, and then he accepted his fate. I wonder if my stalker knows this, if he sees the irony in it.
As soon as the piece is over, I can’t help but seek him out again.
Where are you?
Only the back of his hand—inked and deadly—is still in the room, tapping softly against the edge of the wall, as if to say goodbye.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Each tap echoes deep in my bones.
Then, his hand slides away, disappearing completely.
And he’s gone.
That same night, sleep never comes.
Every time I close my eyes, I see the finger tapping against his lips, and when I open them, my stalker’s gaze flashes across the ceiling of my bedroom. Watching me.
Under the covers, I don’t dare toss or turn, my body rigid and still, like a mouse in a field—afraid to make sudden movements in case a predator is around.
If my stalker got into the gallery, where else can he show up?
Is he here, pacing around my house? He can’t be.
It’s one thing to show up at a public event, quite another to break into this fortress.
This is exactly what a man like him wants—to terrorize me.
And right now, I’m letting him win. Frustration weaves into my breaths as I count to three and yank the covers off my body, sitting upright.
On a night like this, when insomnia keeps me up, only one thing often helps: chocolate milk, cold and spiced with cinnamon, like my mother used to make it.
I wrap my silk robe around myself, walking out into the hallway barefoot. Right now, it’s mostly empty. With my father still gone, only half the usual guards have remained, most of them posted outside. It has to be the only time I’ve ever wished they were all here.
A light breeze coming from the open balcony drapes my hair down my back, caressing my face and neck. The flapping of curtains makes a steady sound in the otherwise silent corridor. I wrap my arms around myself and go downstairs, each step filling me with more unease.
“Ridiculous,” I mutter under my breath. There’s no reason to be afraid in my own home.
Grabbing milk from the fridge, I pour some into a cup, mixing it with cocoa. If Giuseppina saw me using her kitchen, she would freak out, but I’m not waking her up for something so insignificant.
I search for the cinnamon, and the sound of gruff voices carries over from the backyard. The guards always bicker, but I don’t remember them ever being so loud. Where the hell is the spice rack? Maybe I should just take my cup back upstairs and leave out the—
A loud gunshot rings out.
Then another.
And another.
Each time, my body jolts, the glass falling to the floor. It shatters to pieces that fly everywhere.
For a moment, I just stand there, eyes wide, not knowing what’s happening. Until I do.
We’re being attacked.
I blink fast, setting out down the hallway, my body raw with instinct as I keep to the walls, scanning the space for danger I can’t see but feel everywhere.
The safe room. I need to get to the safe room on the other side of the house.
A scream tears out of me as I bump into a hard body with such force, it almost knocks me down. But Cesare catches me just in time.
“Fuck! It’s me. I’ve got you.” He sounds breathless, like he just stopped running himself. He grabs my shoulders and pulls me to the side, away from the windows. I hold on to his arm, heart in my throat.
“Who? Who’s attacking us?” I ask between scattered breaths.
“You’re bleeding,” he rushes to say.
I frown, confused about why he’s saying that, because I don’t feel pain anywhere. But when he crouches at my feet and my gaze follows him there, I notice the deep cut on my left toe. I look up, swallowing, trying to expel the image from my mind. I often faint at the sight of blood.
Cesare shifts, and then the sound of ripped fabric reaches my ears as he quickly ties it around the wound. Pain skitters through this time, and I hiss, bringing my gaze back down. His shirt is now missing a corner.
Down the hall, doors have flung open, the staff filing out one by one. I turn my trembling body, checking to see if anyone else got hurt, but they all seem intact. A little shaken, perhaps, but okay.
“Talk to me,” Cesare says into an earpiece. I pull away from him, unable to stay still, but he holds me close, continuing to shield me. “And no one else is lurking around? Are you sure?”
I blink, clinging to every word as the smell of iron and smoke reaches me through the open windows.
“Everything’s fine,” Cesare tells us. “Go back to your rooms. Someone tried to breach the gates, but we caught him. You’re all safe, I promise.”
What did he just say…?
Someone tried to breach the gates.
A man.
Oh, God… Oh my God.
“Lia?” Giuseppina says carefully, using the nickname only my mother used to call me. “What happened to you, bambina?”
“I…I broke a glass.”
She shakes her head as she approaches. “Let me see that.”
I look at Cesare. “Go with Giuseppina. It’s alright now,” he says, but I can’t. I’m too dazed, too affected by the idea my stalker could have followed me home tonight.
“Who tried to break in? What happened?” I demand. When he doesn’t say anything, panic grips me even harder. “Cesare. Tell me what the hell is going on!”
A muscle twitches in his jaw as he sighs through his nose. Giuseppina excuses herself to bring disinfectant, and the others scatter back to their rooms, understanding the information won’t be shared publicly for now.
Once they’re gone, Cesare mutters, “I thought it was the Russians. Retaliation for the last hit, maybe.”
“But?”
“Like I said, there was only one guy. We checked the perimeter—no one else was with him. Which is fucking weird, since he was unarmed.”
“Just one?” I triple-check, my heart beating so hard, Cesare might be hearing it too.
“Just one.”
“It’s him, then,” I say, shaking my head. “It has to be him. The man who has been following me. I’m telling you.”
It’s the only logical explanation after everything at the recital. Who else could it be?
“Okay. Fuck. Well, if it is him, he seems harmless. The guys searched him—no gun. Why would he come here like that?”
My mind scrambles to put two and two together, but nothing makes sense, including how he found this house.
If he had followed me here after the recital, my guards would’ve seen his car on our trail.
The palazzo is too secluded, built on the outskirts of San Maleno for exactly this reason—so no one can find us.
Which means he couldn’t have arrived here on his own.
“Did he…say anything?” I ask.
“I don’t know yet, but someone will make him talk. Now, go let Giuseppina take care of that cut,” Cesare says, his gaze setting on the housekeeper as she returns with the disinfectant. “Get some rest, Cecilia.”
Then, he’s gone.
When I finally go back upstairs with a clean bandage tight around my toe, I tell myself I’m safe. But even if the intruder is taken care of, the fact he’s in such close proximity to me does little to calm me down.
The wind hums against my window, carrying a whistling note I swear I’ve heard before. And I just know, deep in my rattling bones, that this isn’t over.