Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Elena
At ten in the morning, I opened my work email as usual. The buyer from Milan had just placed a big order—I needed to confirm production progress, and three design drafts were waiting for final approval. My fingers tapped lightly on the mouse, scanning through the email subjects.
Then I spotted the one with no subject line. The sender was a jumble of garbled characters. I was about to hit delete—spam like that was nothing new. But my hand slipped and clicked it open.
The first sentence froze my blood.
"I can smell you, Elena, even through the screen."
Cold sweat slid down my spine.
"I can picture you sitting there, baby, I can imagine your body under that beige sweater... your body belongs to me. I know that little mole under your left breast, I know the curve of your spine when you arch your back. I wonder if you're wearing panties right now."
I jerked my head up, scanning the studio interior. No obvious spots for a hidden camera.
The email went on, "I imagine ripping that fabric off you, bending you over the desk, fucking you from behind until you cry and beg, until the office reeks of you. I want to hear you scream my name."
Nausea hit hard, but I forced it down, swallowing the urge to puke.
"I'll shoot my cum into your womb, make you pregnant with my kids, one after another."
My lungs seized up.
But I couldn't break down now. Work was waiting. Milan needed a reply on the new line—today, or the whole schedule would slip.
It was just a prank. Had to be. I told myself that, fingers shaking as I closed the email. Deep breath. Opened the client's message and started typing.
Focus on work, Elena. Don't think about that sick shit.
My fingers hammered out a professional response, but the email's words coiled in my brain like a venomous snake.
Hit send on the last word. Leaned back, gasping. The office felt alien, dangerous—every shadow hiding spying eyes.
I needed a to-do list for the rest of the day. Mechanically, I yanked open the desk drawer for my notepad—my fingers brushed something that shouldn't be there. A thick manila envelope, sitting right on top.
I'd never seen it before.
My heart pounded. Trembling fingers tore it open.
A stack of photos spilled onto the desk.
The first was my side profile, focused on designing—perfect composition, if it wasn't a creep shot.
The second twisted my gut. Angle from the bedside: me on my side, nightgown slipped to my waist, legs and panties exposed.
Third, the gown bunched at my collarbone, breasts fully bare.
Fourth... a close-up of my sleeping face, surface smeared with sticky, pale fluid.
My hand brushed it accidentally, coming away slick.
I bolted to the studio bathroom in the corner, cranked the faucet, and scrubbed the stickiness off. That pervert. He'd snuck into my bedroom while I slept, jerked off on my photo?
My hands turned red from rubbing. Finally clean. Splashed cold water on my face. The woman in the mirror was pale, blue eyes wide with panic and disgust.
Back at the desk, I forced myself to flip through the rest. Fingers shook, but I had to know what else this freak did.
Handwritten notes on the backs, black ink.
On the breast-exposed one: [My exclusive toy.]
On the panties one: [Soon, this will be filled with my cum.]
On the cum-smeared face close-up: [Your midnight snack from me. Like it?]
I belonged to him? To this coward who wouldn't show his face? This shadow-lurking creep? I shoved the photos back in, like they'd bite.
Every corner of the office turned suspicious. How'd he slip the envelope in my drawer? Did he have a key? Fear and rage twisted around me, crushing the envelope in my fist.
"Elena?" Anna pushed the door open, arms full of fabric samples. "Milan emailed again, wants to add—oh God, you okay? You look awful."
"Fine. Breakfast didn't sit right, messed with my stomach," I forced a smile. "Handle Milan for me. I... got something urgent."
She eyed me suspiciously but didn't push. "Okay."
After she left, I slumped in the chair, staring at the drawer. That envelope sat like a ticking bomb.
Phone. Needed to call Marco. Fingers stabbed his number wildly. Each second of ringing stretched like a year.
"Elena?" His voice came through, warm and concerned. "What's wrong?"
"Marco, can you—" My voice shook. "Can you come to the studio now?"
"What happened?" Alertness sharpened his tone. "Why's your voice trembling?"
"Please, just come."
"I'm on my way. Ten minutes."
Waiting felt like an eternity after hanging up. I stood by the window, eyes on the street. Every pedestrian a potential threat, every parked car hiding that freak.
Finally, Marco's deep blue sedan pulled up. He practically leaped out, burst through the door, face etched with worry.
"Elena!"
He rushed over, brown eyes scanning me for injuries.
"I'm okay," I said. "Look at this."
I handed him just the work shot and the sleeping close-up. Marco took them, his expression shifting from confusion to shock to pure rage. Jaw clenched, temple vein bulging.
"This pervert!" His voice rumbled low. "This fucking pervert! When'd he take these? Shit, he was in your bedroom!"
"And an email this morning. Real explicit. He knew what I was wearing today."
Marco's head snapped up, eyes blazing. "Show me."
I opened the laptop, pulled up the email. He read it, slammed the screen shut hard.
"That bastard." Deep breath, fighting for control. "He's stalking you, watching you, even—"
He eyed the stains on the sleep shots, face darkening. "He might have cameras here."
Marco's gaze turned deadly focused. He set the photos down, started inspecting the studio. Bookshelves first, then curtains, every ceiling corner. He knew what to look for, better than me. Five minutes in, he found the first one behind a decorative vase on the shelf top—button-sized, camouflaged.
"Damn." He plucked it carefully, showed it in his palm. "Not easy to get gear like this."
Kept searching. Found a second at the curtain rod end, third in the corner smoke detector.
"Three." He lined them up on the table, voice ice-cold.
My stomach churned again. I'd been under watch all along. It wasn't cold out, but I shivered. Marco came over, pulled me into his arms.
"I'll protect you." His voice firm in my ear. "I'll call guys in Cosa Nostra—they know how to track scum like this. If he wants to hurt you, he'll go through me first."
I nodded. Stayed in his hold a bit, calming down.
"Stella—" It hit me. "I need to arrange her pickup. Nanny's free today, but I should call."
"I'll do it." Marco pulled out his phone. "Give me her number."
I recited it. He dialed, told her to pick up Stella on time from kindergarten, no strangers near the kid, straight home after, lock up, call cops if anything off.
Hearing his clear instructions eased my heart a little. At least Stella was safe.
After hanging up, Marco took my hand. "It's almost noon. You need to eat—your color's bad."
I nodded, followed him downstairs.
The restaurant's warm yellow lights and food smells helped me unwind a bit. Marco ordered my usual pasta and soup, steak for himself.
"Eat." He pushed the pasta over. "Keep your strength up."
I forced a few bites; it tasted like sawdust. But under his encouraging eyes, I ate more.
"It'll be okay," I said, mostly to myself. "Just a creepy stalker. Cops'll handle it."
"I don't trust cops." Marco shook his head. "They botch cases like this—you know how Italian police are. But my guys? They got ways."
I knew what he meant. Mafia handled things their own way, no legal bullshit.
"Marco."
"Don't worry." His hand reached across, stroked my hair. "Just having them check who this guy is, where he is. Your and Stella's safety comes first. No one's touching you with me around."
I met his brown eyes, full of worry and care. All these years, Marco'd been there when I needed him most.
We finished lunch slowly. Food helped; my stomach didn't feel so hollow. Marco insisted on tiramisu, said sweets lift moods.
"As kids, whenever you were down, I'd sneak you candy." He smiled. "Remember? We were broke, but I'd save up for you."
"I remember." I smiled too—first real one all day. "You always gave me your share."
"Seeing you smile was sweeter than the candy." His gaze softened.
In that moment, the warm lights, Marco's gentle smile, the sweet tiramisu—it almost made me forget the photos and email.
Dessert done, Marco checked the time. "About that hour. I'll take you home."
I didn't argue. No idea if that creep was tailing me.
Marco drove me to my building, insisted on walking me up.
"Marco, really, no need. It's daytime, we're at the door—I'll be fine," I pushed. "Hospital's probably swamped; get back to work."
He hesitated a long time, finally nodded. We said goodbye downstairs. I watched his car pull away, vanish around the corner.
Glanced at my phone—1 p.m., lunch hour, streets quiet.
I turned, quickened my pace—
Suddenly, a hand clamped over my mouth from behind. An arm snaked around my waist, dragging me toward a black luxury car parked curbside. The strength was overwhelming—I couldn't break free, couldn't twist to see who.
"Don't move." A voice whispered in my ear, warped through a voice changer, mechanical and terrifying. "Come quietly, or you won't like what I do."
With that, a hard, cold object pressed into my side. A gun? I swallowed hard. Wanted to fight, scream. But I didn't dare—afraid he'd shoot.
Door yanked open. Shoved into the back seat. Before I could react, fabric blindfolded my eyes, a silicone ball stuffed in my mouth. Hands twisted behind my back, roped tight. Tried to speak, but the thing gagged me—only muffled whimpers, drool trickling down.
"The gag suits you." The mechanical voice said. "So cute."
I kept trying to make noise, ask who he was, what he wanted. Failed.
His hand pushed the gag, sliding it in my mouth, making my jaw ache.
"Want to know who I am?" He asked.
I nodded.