Chapter 23
ROSALIE
Ididn’t know what to do with Max. I couldn’t believe how impulsive the man was.
He was a maniac.
He was absolutely insane.
What was he even thinking? I’d once had control—if you could even call it that—but I certainly didn’t have anything of the sort now.
What was I supposed to do? The man had the temper of a twig. I had no choice but to follow him. I needed to make sure my family was safe before I let him kill me.
Max, with his inscrutable expression, led the way. I didn’t know where we were going, and I didn’t bother to ask. Perhaps the dimly lit trunk of his car. How about a remote dock, with a heavy cement block tied to my foot? Or maybe an abandoned warehouse, where he’d draw out my torment.
Hell if I knew.
He was silent the entire time, just like I remembered him. It spoke volumes no matter how nonexistent his words were. He didn’t know what to say to me, but that didn’t stop him from walking on my heels, hovering over me like a shadow, creeping in on my vulnerability.
We walked for what felt like an eternity, twenty blocks blurring into a monotonous stretch of pavement under the harsh streetlights. My Valentinos were killing my feet, but if I was going to die, I was going to die wearing these.
Duke came along with us. Trusting Max alone was a gamble I wasn’t willing to take—not after seeing what he’d done. I guessed the rumors were all right about him after all.
I could still see Lucas’s body—his dead body—lying on the floor of my apartment. His eyes were wide and pleading, begging me for help. My stomach churned at the thought of his loose limbs. Did I have to drag his body somewhere? Would it smell?
Oh god. The stain . . . How would I even begin to clean this up? Bleach? Absolutely not. Bleach would only make the whole thing worse. Vinegar was a possibility, but the smell . . . No amount of Febreze would mask the tang it left behind.
I mentally raced through various cleaning solutions, each one discarded in the back of my mind as impractical or ineffective.
I envisioned myself hunched over the rug for hours, scrubbing the incriminating stain as if I were the one who’d pulled the trigger.
I was going down for Max’s crimes and his loose temper.
Had Max gone for my family already? What if he’d killed them? What if I was doing all this for nothing, and I was just his last victim, his grand finale?
Max extended his arm out to my stomach, forcing me to stop. My heart hammered in my chest as I moved back. Then his hand moved to the small of my back, leading me to a door as he opened it for me.
He seemed nervous I’d try to make a run for it.
I couldn’t lie—I’d been thinking about taking that chance the entire time.
The store we entered was tiny, almost suffocating.
The shelves were crammed with random items such as snacks, drinks, and toys.
The speakers played a staticky version of a Rihanna song from 2007.
A bored-looking woman sat behind the counter.
She had washed-out blonde hair, blue eyes, and she wore a pink shirt that read “this girl loves Jesus.”
I questioned her fashion sense, which was funny considering she held a magazine in her hands I noticed immediately. The newest catalog. My mother was obsessed. She’d ordered everything from it already. The clothes, the shoes, and the makeup—my favorite.
Oh. I needed to focus. She looked like a nice person, someone who could help me.
The woman’s eyes were fixed on Max as he headed down one of the narrow aisles. I grabbed a random candy bar off the shelf and placed it on the counter.
“Can you help me?” I barely whispered, moving my lips without a sound, my eyes darting to hers. Duke sat beside my foot.
The woman understood me, that much was clear, but she acted as if she didn’t. She scanned the candy bar and gave me a blank look.
“That big man over there is kidnapping me,” I whispered again, hoping she’d do something.
Call the police, scream—anything, really.
“Cash or card?” she asked, her eyes looking above mine.
My mouth fell open slightly. I turned to find Max standing behind me. He towered over me, and I felt the heat of his body again. The nerves were back, and they were growing rapidly.
Did he hear me? Shit.
He placed a bottle of Tylenol on the counter. “Card, thank you, Katie,” he told her, lifting his hand over my shoulder.
He knew her.
“Anytime.” Her cheeks flushed as if she were greedy for his eyes. Of course she was.
He faced me and then took the bar of candy out of my hand. “Why are you getting this? You’re allergic to peanut butter,” he said.
My cheeks flushed for what felt like the millionth time today. I hadn’t bothered to look at what I’d grabbed—I’d just needed something so I had an excuse to talk to the woman. The one who was betraying me.
“That could’ve been bad,” I said dramatically.
He took a step toward me, and I took one closer to the door. He was agitated with me and completely aware of my escape tactics.
I glanced at him behind me. God, he was such a terrible man. A terrible man who wouldn’t leave me alone. I felt like a sheep waiting to be herded; Max could steer me in any direction just by stepping closer. Standing next to him, having to deal with the nerves he brought out—it was too much.
So for every step he took toward me, I took one away.
His long legs gave him an advantage in catching up, which I thought was unfair. I didn’t know where we were going, and I didn’t ask either.
Eventually, he stopped me at another door, and we entered an old-fashioned diner, with vintage posters and faded photographs plastered to the walls, each one different.
He walked me to a booth. “Sit.”
Max was more demanding than I remembered.
Stepping up onto a small ledge, I slid into the red leather banquette. Duke lay at my feet, and Max sat across from me, his expressions inexplicable. I could feel the heat of his stare, and it wasn’t welcoming, no matter how handsome he may be.
It felt like I was being studied, and I was doomed to fail. He knew I was nervous. The way he watched me, he read me like a book. What was he up to? Why was he dragging this out? If he wanted to punish me, he needed to get on with it.
What did he expect? Did he want me on my knees begging for his forgiveness? Fat chance. I wasn’t sorry—not one bit. In fact, given the opportunity, I’d do it all again.
A young woman with an apron and a warm smile approached the table. “What can I get you two?” she asked, adjusting the pad of paper in her hands.
“Coffee with hazelnut cream,” Max said, ordering for me. “Black for me.”
I could feel so many memories attacking me at once. Max remembered so much about me, down to the tiniest detail. Part of me thought it was sweet. The other part couldn’t help but wonder why he’d remembered all these details.
He was obsessive.
In a strange way, I supposed that was a good thing. I’d once learned—during a late-night deep dive down an internet rabbit hole—that serial killers showed mercy if they were familiar with facts about the victim. I guess it made them feel a sliver of empathy, which I hoped Max had for me.
Considering how he remembered so much about me already—obsessive asshole—I figured I stood a chance.
At least I hoped.
He pushed his sleeves up his forearm, revealing his tattooed arms, and stared at me. “You’ve changed the way you wear your hair,” he murmured.
We’re really doing this? Okay, here we go . . .
“Yes,” I said. I straightened my hair now instead of leaving it natural. “I changed everything you liked about me. Figured you would’ve gotten the hint by now.”
“Ah,” he drawled, lifting his lip gently. “You thought about me long enough to assume my opinion. Your efforts have been noted, no matter how useless.”
Was that supposed to mean he liked my hair no matter how I wore it? A rebellious thought lingered in the back of my mind. If he was so fixated on my hair, maybe shaving it off would be the ultimate act of defiance. The thought was so outlandish, so childish, so utterly reckless.
Gosh, he could be so frustrating. I’d forgotten that about him.
The waitress, who’d been watching me with a careful eye, placed the cup of coffee down on the table in front of us. Once she’d moved on to a different table, Max cleared his throat.
“This is how it’s going to go,” he said, his voice calm, but his eyes flickered around the room, taking in every exit. His hands, resting on the table, didn’t fidget. “You answer my questions truthfully, and then you’re free to go.”
His response seemed reasonable. Respectful. Easy. Too easy—it seemed like a trap. There’d be a catch, some hidden barb waiting for my vulnerability.
“I can leave? Just like that?” I echoed, my voice barely above a whisper. My fingers traced a nervous pattern on the chipped ceramic mug in front of me.
I knew how to handle the men my father worked with. I’d grown up navigating their gruff demeanors, their threats, and their unpredictable moods. But dealing with Max was like dealing with all my father’s men combined. I’d never be able to outsmart him, no matter what I did.
Max leaned back in his chair. “Depending on your decision, yes. But you’ll have to share your coffee with me first.”
There was a catch. The offer of freedom was presented on a silver platter but poisoned just the same. He wouldn’t be giving me much of any decision—it would just feel that way.
“Just get on with it. Ask your questions.”
His brows rose, surprised by my urgency. What did he expect?
“My last name—”
“Do I know it?” I interrupted.
That amused him. “Do you?”
Taking a deep breath, I decided to play my hand. “Hmm. Ciao, Romano,” I greeted in Italian to prove I knew who he really was.
I supposed playing that card was a gamble, a test, to see if the facade he’d worn for years would crumble; to see if he’d finally admit it to me.
A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was as if he was happy to hear me say it aloud. “Ciao, bella mia.”
Oh.