Chapter 28
Princess
I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but I do it anyway. Unlocking the door to Lucio’s apartment, I step in. Today is the third day since I last heard from that asshole. And stepping into his apartment, it seems like he hasn’t been here, just as I suspected.
Stepping inside, I close the door behind me, and my gaze sweeps over the area. The same coffee mug sits in the same position as yesterday, and that same plate right beside it.
Where the fuck could he have gone?
I move further inside, my fingers trailing along the edge of his counter. The place is too still, too untouched. If Lucio had been here recently, there’d be some sign of life, and I would have seen him on the hours of footage I have.
Frustration coils tight in my chest as I make my way toward his bedroom.
The sheets on his bed are slightly rumpled, the imprint of his body long faded.
I hesitate for only a second before pulling open his nightstand drawer.
Nothing unusual—some loose change, a half-empty pack of cigarettes, and two boxes of condoms, half-full.
He’s relentless, isn’t he? Shaking my head, I check his closet next. His clothes are all there, hanging in neat rows, which means he didn’t pack to leave.
But Lucio isn’t the type to just vanish. He’s sloppy. He always leaves a trail.
I sigh, closing the walk-in closet doors.
Where the hell are you, Lucio?
Making my way back to the living room I check his desk, a few scribbled notes, that I struggle to make sense of. His laptop is shut, the screen dark. I press the power button, but it prompts me for a password. Of course.
There’s nothing. No sign of where he went, no clue as to why he hasn’t answered me. And the more I look, the more I come up empty-handed, the more reckless and uneasy I feel.
I let out a slow breath, pressing my fingers against my temples. My phone is heavy in my pocket, a reminder that Lucio isn’t missing —he’s avoiding me.
I know because he reads my messages. Every single one. I sent him another text this morning.
Me:
Where the fuck are you?
Read at 7:12 AM. No reply.
Last night?
Me:
Are you seriously ignoring me?
Read at 11:49 PM. Nothing.
Three days of this. Three days of silence. Three days of knowing he’s alive somewhere, choosing not to speak to me.
And that pisses me off more than the idea of him being missing. My fingers curl into fists as I turn back toward the desk, scanning the clutter again. If he won’t tell me where he is, I’ll figure it out myself.
Yanking open a drawer, I rummage through the mess of papers, old receipts, and scattered pens. There’s a crumpled envelope shoved toward the back, addressed to him in handwriting I don’t recognize.
My pulse kicks up as I smooth the paper out, but my heart sinks when I see it’s just an old bill.
Nothing useful.
I slam the drawer shut and move toward his jacket, draped over the arm of the couch.
His scent lingers: cigarettes and the faintest hint of cologne.
My hands slip into the pockets, searching.
A lighter, some crumpled cash, a folded piece of paper.
I pull it out and ease it open, pressing away the stubborn crumbles with my fingers.
A receipt. Two nights ago. A bar across town. I stare at the date, my stomach tightening. Two nights ago…
So he was here, at least briefly. This must be a blind spot for the camera. But why wouldn’t he come back? Why wouldn’t he answer me?
I bite my lip, my phone burning a hole in my pocket. He’s reading my messages, but not responding. Which means I can still get his attention.
I type furiously.
Me:
Fine. Keep ignoring me. But if you think I’m going to stop looking for you, you’re dead fucking wrong.
I hit send. Seconds pass. The three little dots appear— like he’s going to respond. My breath catches.
Then they disappear.
My blood runs hot. He’s playing games. He wants me to give up, to stop chasing him. Too bad for him, I never stop.
I grab the receipt, shoving it into my pocket. If Lucio won’t come to me, I’ll find him myself. And when I do, he better have a damn good reason for running after demanding we give whatever this fucked-up situation between us is a go.
Whatever the fuck that means.
Slipping out of the apartment, I close the door quietly behind me.
The hallway is dim, the low lights casting uneasy shadows.
I keep my head down as I move, listening for any signs of the staff building.
The last thing I need is someone asking questions.
Reaching the stairwell, I take the steps two at a time, my heartbeat loud in my ears.