Chapter 3
Sloane
The apartment is like a part of him, huge, simple, and built to handle anything that comes its way.
But there's another side too: a kind of history hidden in the worn floors and a surprising warmth in the soft glow of the lamps.
It smells of old leather with a hint of tobacco.
Maybe he's more than just a hard-edged night walker.
I soak in every little detail, grounding my fear, even though I should feel terrified. Instead, he seems like the solution, not the problem.
"You live here alone?" I ask.
He glances back at me, and for a moment, I get lost in those pale, watchful eyes.
My pulse flutters when his gaze locks with mine, and I'm struck by how deep the blue really is.
This close, I can catch his scent, something woodsy and sharp, with undertones of expensive cologne that probably costs more than my rent.
"Nope. I don't live here at all. This is just my city pad, for when I need to get away from my family."
His family. The thought echoes dimly inside my skull.
He has a family. He probably has a name, too, though I haven't squeezed that out of him yet.
I'm hyperaware of his presence, of the space he takes up in the room.
The air feels charged between us, static electricity waiting for the right moment to spark.
"Who are you?" I ask.
"Rafaele Rosetti," he says, peering at me, monitoring my reaction.
The name ripples through me. Rosetti. Even I know that name. My dad would know it better, from his days on the force. My mouth goes dry, and I swallow hard.
"Am I supposed to know who that is? Are you on TV or something?"
He scoffs, then slips into the next room without answering. I follow him slowly, taking in the sturdy furniture and the striking black-and-white photos on the walls. The silence between us is thick with unspoken words, with tension that seems to grow with each step I take toward him.
"Here," he says as he reappears with a cup of tea, its little steam cloud dancing. His voice rumbles low and steady, and the pause between his words feels just like a breath of fresh air. "To help you relax."
He extends the cup, and our fingers brush when I take it. A jolt of heat shoots up my arm, unexpected and disarming. His expression doesn't change, but I notice the subtle tightening of his jaw, the slight dilation of his pupils. He felt it too.
I can't help but ask, "Is this where you kill me too?"
The challenge slips out, mixed with my desperate need for answers. My heart races, partly from fear and partly from something else I don't want to name.
He smirks slightly and replies, "If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't have made tea." He offers the cup and, with a playful tilt of his head, adds, "Blanket?"
My fingers warm on the cup, and for a moment, the simple comfort steadies me. I'm close enough to see the faint stubble along his jaw, the small scar above his left eyebrow. His presence fills the room, powerful yet contained.
"I need answers," I say plainly.
He slides onto a cracked leather sofa. "First, tell me your name," he says. His voice is lower now, almost intimate in the quiet apartment.
I pause for a minute, but there doesn't seem any point in lying. And he seems like the kind of guy with enough resources to find the truth anyway.
"Sloane Carter," I tell him. "How did you know it was the Callahans?"
"I saw them," he replies with a matter-of-fact tone. "White van. Hard to miss."
"And you didn't stop them?" I press on.
"I don't poke my nose in where it might get bitten off." He picks up an old, worn blanket from an ancient-looking couch and tosses it to me. "Neither should you," he adds softly.
I grip the cup tighter, and then the question tumbles out, raw and unfiltered:
"Why did they do it? What did Maddy ever do to them?"
He leans in closer. "She got caught up in the wrong crowd. Made some bad choices. Bad friends."
I glare at him, feeling the heat in my cheeks. His proximity makes it hard to think straight. He smells like danger and security all at once, and I hate how much I want to lean into him despite everything.
"I'm her friend. So why am I still alive?" I ask.
"You were late," he answers bluntly.
The words hit me, jarring in their simplicity. Nothing makes sense right now. I should be scared, yet here I am, sipping tea with a self-confessed killer. The strangest part is how safe I feel in his presence, how my body betrays me by wanting to move closer to him instead of away.
"Are you part of this? Is that why you know so much?" I ask.
He pauses, and for a moment, the space between us feels thick with unspoken questions. Our gazes lock, and the intensity in his eyes makes my breath catch. "Does it really matter?" he replies.
"Does that count as a yes?"
He tilts his head toward the hallway. "The bed's this way, if you're ready."
A part of me wants to run, to escape before everything falls apart.
But I can't bear the thought of stepping foot outside into the dark night, surrounded by murderers and the memory of Maddy's dead body.
So I follow, stepping down the hallway like a lamb to slaughter.
My heart pounds so loudly I'm sure he can hear it, the rhythm betraying emotions I don't want to acknowledge.
"Really going to let me sleep?" I ask.
"I don't need you dropping on my floor," he quips, holding the door open and nodding toward the bed.
My legs wobble as if the ground might give way beneath me, yet I step into the small, spartan room. It's even emptier than the rest of the house. A simple dresser, a lone chair, and a single lamp that casts soft, dancing shadows.
"Thank you," I whisper, not exactly sure what I'm thanking him for.
"Don't mention it," he replies casually.
I sit on the edge of the bed, feeling the day's weight crashing over me like a heavy sheet. The door clicks shut behind him, and his footsteps fade away until I'm left alone with my thoughts.
My head hits the pillow, and soon exhaustion drags me down into sleep, into a mingled dreamscape where images flicker: Maddy's face, a cold concrete wall, Rafaele Rosetti's eyes as blue as a winter dawn.
The crisp panic doesn't hit until well after midnight.
It's a room of stifling shadows, draped thick on the floor, heavy on my chest. I wake up gagging.
Her name is caught like bile in my throat.
Maddy. My body feels glued to the sheets, the mattress quicksand beneath me.
Her eyes, still and cold. I'm dying right there with her.
I roll off the bed, gasping, skin burning.
Each heartbeat is an echo of her name. It swallows me whole. Maddy.
I sit on the floor, heart thrumming. It's so dark.
Too quiet. The air is crushing my lungs, and I have to drag in breath after breath.
I can still see her. Hair splayed out on the concrete.
Her favorite feather necklace, silver against red.
That's when the scream comes, tearing out of my throat.
It sounds raw. Shredded. I shove my fist against my mouth.
The sheets cling to me, soaked in sweat. I rip them away, crawl across the floor, but the whole room is full of her. I press my palms to my ears, squeezing my eyes shut. I can't block her out. She's there with me, and she's not. There's just emptiness. I'm so fucking alone.
I stumble to my feet, tripping over the tangled sheets. My skin is on fire, fever-bright. It's burning the life out of me. I crash through the door and out into the hall.
The house is dark, except for a faint light somewhere in the distance. It's cold and empty, and my breath echoes against the walls. I clutch the blanket to my chest, drag it behind me like a ghost. I feel like one. Nothing but a haunted, hollow thing.
I keep moving, legs unsteady beneath me. There's nothing but shadow, just room after room of it. It presses against me, sharp as bone. Her name beats like blood through me. I whisper it between breaths. Maddy. But it's not enough. Not loud enough. Not even real.
Then, somehow, I find a door. It's closed, but that doesn't stop me. I twist the knob, pull it open, and there he is. I don't even know if I'm more terrified or relieved.
Rafaele.
His back is to me. The covers barely pull over his shoulders, as if even in sleep he can't stand to feel trapped. The room smells like him, warm and sharp, and I can taste it in the back of my throat. It fills my mouth.
I take a step inside, dragging the blanket along.
My fingers tremble on the doorknob, and I let go before I lose my nerve.
The door swings shut behind me, and the click is loud.
I almost turn around, almost leave, but then I remember Maddy's eyes.
The way they looked. Cold and empty, but seeing everything.
He hasn't moved, hasn't heard me yet. His breathing is steady, shoulders rising and falling with it. I stare for a long time, waiting for courage to fill me up. It doesn't. It's a hole that never gets full. So I take the coward's way instead.
I slip into bed next to him, under the edge of his blanket. He's on his stomach, face buried in the pillow. His hair spills across it like ink, and my fingers itch to touch it. To touch him. Anything to know I'm not the only one still breathing.
His back is wide, and there's no softness to him, not even in sleep. I hover there, wanting to press myself against him, wanting to disappear, wanting—
"What the hell?"
He's already twisting around. I stay still, caught like a kid sneaking in after curfew. I want to melt into the mattress. Want it to swallow me.
"Sloane?" My name sounds wrong coming from him. Too intimate. "What the hell are you doing?"
I'm still shaking. I wish I weren't, but my body hasn't caught up with my brain yet. It feels brittle. "I couldn't sleep," I say. It sounds stupid. "I thought maybe—"
"Go back to your room." He's all the way awake now. Pissed, brows drawn together in a hard line.