Chapter 9
Raven
The pounding at my door drags me from sleep like a body hauled from the depths—violent, breath-stealing, wrong. I bolt upright, heart hammering against my ribs, disoriented in the darkness of my bedroom.
For a moment, I think it’s part of my dream—the one where I’m walking through endless corridors while looking for a bathroom—until the sound comes again, hard enough to rattle the hinges.
Nope, definitely not a dream. Someone’s trying to break my door down at—I squint at my phone—almost two in the morning. Gah, I’ve only slept an hour max.
After bolting from the office I came straight home and made myself very good friends with almost every bottle of booze I have. Avoidance at its finest.
Knock. Knock.
The actual fuck. I fumble for the lamp, knocking over a water glass in my panic. But I can’t care about the spill now.
My feet hit the cold floor as I slide out of bed, tugging my oversized sleep shirt down over my thighs. It’s all I’m wearing, but whoever’s at my door at this ungodly hour can deal with my bare legs or go fuck themselves. Preferably option two.
“I’m coming!” I shout, voice still rough with sleep. “Christ on a cracker, calm down.” The pounding pauses, but the silence that follows is somehow worse.
I grab my neon green umbrella from my closet. It’s not even remotely intimidating, but neither are my empty hands. My pulse throbs in my throat as I approach my front door. Through the peephole, I see a distorted face that sends ice slivering down my spine.
Matteo.
Well… fuck. I should have grabbed the knife from under my pillow.
“Go away,” I squeak, immediately hating how small it sounds. Great. Terrified chihuahua energy—exactly the impression I was going for. “I’m armed, Matteo. Don’t make me prove it.”
“Open this fucking door, Raven. Or I swear I’ll kick it the fuck down,” he roars back.
I force my trembling fingers to steady so I can unlock the door and crack it open, keeping the chain engaged. “Do you know what time it is?” I demand, injecting as much annoyance into my voice as I can muster.
Matteo fills the doorway like heat after lightning—too bright, too close. The hallway light slides across the burn-scars on his neck and over the surface of his left eye, catching on it just enough to look unsettling in the half light.
In one hand, he holds a cup, steam curling from its lid like a beckoning finger. Maybe I’d have asked for a sip if I hadn’t stolen from him, and, well, if he wasn’t looking at me with that angry glare.
“Good morning, Little Thief.” His voice is soft velvet wrapped around broken glass.
My stomach drops as I fight to keep my expression neutral. “W-what do you want?” I ask.
His gray eyes assess me through the crack. “I think you know exactly what I want. Open the door. Now.”
Before I can respond, he lifts his leg and kicks the door. I jump back with a scream as the chain snaps with ridiculous ease, and suddenly he’s inside, crossing the threshold with the casual confidence of someone who believes every space belongs to him.
“Shut the fuck up!” The angry shout comes from one of my neighbors.
I stumble backward, my umbrella gripped uselessly at my side. “You can’t just…”
He sets the cup down with a surgical calm that’s somehow worse than yelling. Steam coils up between us like smoke off a fuse.
“Where is it?” he asks as he turns to face me fully, hands sliding into his pockets with deceptive casualness.
“Where’s what?” I ask even though I know exactly what he means.
“My lighter. The silver one you stole while I was in the shower.” His soft tone doesn’t match the anger brewing in his eyes.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply automatically, backing away as he advances into my living room. “Is this because I left? I ran off because those men were trying to kill me, and clearly, they were there for you. Not exactly the afterglow I was hoping for.”
“You left before they ever touched you.” His laugh is a dry, humorless sound. “And they paid for touching you, by the way. With. Their. Lives.”
A chill runs down my spine. I knew he killed for me that night, and now the pin is loosening, which makes it impossible to pretend it was a nightmare.
“Where’s my lighter?” he asks again, his tone chillingly low.
“Look, I don’t have your lighter. Maybe you dropped it somewhere.” Why the fuck am I lying when he’s here? I should just go get it. But everything in me balks at that. It’s my lighter now. “And even if I did take it, breaking into my apartment is a bit excessive, don’t you think?”
Matteo’s smile is slow and predatory. “Breaking in? You opened the door for me.” He glances around my apartment, taking in the carefully arranged furniture, the half-empty wineglass from last night. “Nice place. Much nicer than where I expected to find you.”
“Thanks for the housing review. Feel free to leave now.” I gesture toward the door with my umbrella.
The corners of his lips curl upward. “Glad you warned me you were armed,” he smirks. “That thing should require a license.”
I huff in annoyance. “Get out.”
“No.”
I can’t explain my thought process when I swing the umbrella, fully intending to hit him with it. “Get. Out,” I hiss.
With a rumble of laughter, he snatches it from me and cracks it over his thigh. The wood cracks, splinters scatter across the floor. “Now I feel so much safer,” he deadpans.
“What the hell, Matteo?” I shriek. For some reason, him ruining the umbrella that means nothing to me, makes fear give way to anger. “You owe me a new umbrella. And a door. And a chain.”
Ignoring my very choice words and the creative insults, he plucks a framed photo of me in front of the Eiffel Tower from my bookshelf. After studying it, he puts it back and runs a couple of fingers across my framed diploma from when I graduated two years ago.
“So you’re a Georgetown graduate,” he muses, somehow sounding as though he already knew that.
Then, without warning, he upends my coffee table. My laptop and several other items crash to the floor. I jump back, a startled cry escaping me.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I shout as he moves to the couch next, flipping cushions onto the floor.
“Looking for what’s mine.” His voice remains eerily calm, at odds with the violence of his actions. He moves with methodical precision, like this is just another day for him. Maybe it is.
“Stop destroying my apartment!” I scream.
“Tell me where it is, and I will.” He yanks open a drawer in my side table, dumping its contents onto the growing pile of my belongings on the floor.
“I told you, I don’t have it.” The lie comes easier this time, fueled by indignation. “Come on. It’s just a lighter. You could buy another one.”
Matteo pauses, turning those storm-cloud eyes on me. For a beat, I catch a faint glassy reflection in one—something off, too still, too smooth—but it’s gone before I can place it.
“Just a lighter?” His voice drops to an icy whisper. “That was my father’s lighter. It’s the only thing I have left of him.”
Guilt sucker-punches me in the stomach. I didn’t know. How could I have known it was an… heirloom? Yeah, the justification feels hollow even to me.
“I’m sorry about your dad,” I say, softening my tone slightly. “But that doesn’t give you the right to break in here and tear apart my home.”
“The right?” He laughs, the sound sharp enough to cut. “You’re talking to me about rights after you stole from me?”
He heads for the kitchen and tears through it like a controlled burn—cupboards gutted, bags ripped, white dust lifting and hanging between us like smoke after a match strike.
I watch helplessly as he moves through my space like an invading army, claiming territory. By the time there’s only one room left, I’m shaking like a leaf in a storm.
Matteo’s head tilts to the side, a smirk pulling at his lips. “One to go,” he mumbles, already moving.
Before I can move to block him, he brushes past me, his shoulder connecting with mine just firmly enough to knock me off balance. I stumble, catching myself against the wall as he strides purposefully toward my bedroom.
“Stay out of there,” I call after him, but he’s already crossing the threshold.
I follow, knowing it’s useless to try to stop him but unwilling to let him invade my most private space unchallenged. When I enter the bedroom, he’s already pulling open my dresser drawers, sifting through folded clothes.
“Find anything interesting?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe with forced casualness. “Any deep, dark secrets hidden in my underwear drawer?”
“Not yet,” he replies, not even glancing up as he rifles through my belongings.
As he kneels to check under my bed, my heart rate spikes. The shoebox with my collection is hidden just inches from his searching hands.
“Nothing under here,” he announces, standing up and turning toward my closet.
I exhale silently, relief washing over me. That is until I notice the slight curve of his lips. He saw it. He’s just toying with me now, like a cat with a cornered mouse.
My heart lodges somewhere in my throat as Matteo feigns interest in my closet, pawing through hangers with deliberate slowness. He’s playing with me. I know it, and he knows that I know it.
The shoebox under my bed might as well be pulsing with neon light, announcing its presence to the room. I should have hidden it better. In the ceiling, in a wall, anywhere but under my bed. Now it’s too late.
“Nice clothes,” he comments casually, running his fingers along the sleeve of my favorite silk blouse. “Expensive taste for someone who needs to steal.”
“I don’t need to steal,” I snap. “And I told you, I don’t have your—”
He spins suddenly, moving with the liquid grace of a predator. “Enough lies.” His voice drops to that dangerous whisper that makes my skin prickle. “We both know what’s under the bed, Raven.”