Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty Four
Elsa
The bathroom mirror is fogged at the edges from my shower, and my skin still feels warm and flushed in that clean, loosened way it only does when I let the water run too hot too long.
I did.
I took my sweet time.
I told myself it was because I needed to wash the gym off, because I needed to think, because I needed to calm down after Antonio dropped criminal syndicate into my living room like it was as ordinary as a weather report.
But the truth is simpler and uglier.
I needed the time because I didn’t know what else to do with myself.
Because agreeing to let him stay wasn’t really a choice. Not if he was right. Not if Bellandi really is watching my building. Not if this is bigger than a deal and a bruised ego and one reckless night that keeps trying to crawl back into my life and take over.
If I’m in danger, then pretending I’m not doesn’t protect me.
So I said yes.
I walk out of the bathroom and into my bedroom, then pause. Quickly, I walk back into the bathroom and cross to the door that leads to the hallway. I unlock it and dash across the bathroom to the door leading to my bedroom.
I close it behind me and lock it.
I’m going to have to remember to close that door at night from now on, in case Antonio gets up to use the bathroom.
I continue into my bedroom and sit at my vanity. In my robe, with a towel wrapped around my hair, ready to do skincare like my world hasn’t just completely changed.
Cleanser. Toner. Serum. The familiar ritual steadies my hands. It gives my brain something repetitive and concrete to cling to while everything else runs wild in the background.
I smooth moisturizer over my cheeks and stare at myself for a second.
I don’t want to acknowledge the other part.
The part that whispers that Bellandi isn’t the only reason my stomach is tight.
The part that knows the real problem is that Antonio Conti is in my apartment.
In my space.
Breathing my air.
And I don’t know if I can handle him here—this close—all day and night for an undetermined amount of time.
My apartment is fairly big by New York standards. Enough room to stretch out and breathe. But not enough room that we wouldn’t be… well, in the same room all day. He offered to sleep on the couch without hesitation, not even proposing that he sleep in my room with me.
I do have an extra bedroom. I can create distance.
Maybe.
I reach for my eye cream, tap it under my eyes, and my gaze flicks to the little acrylic organizer on my dresser.
Makeup.
Everything is lined up in neat rows—foundation, concealer, bronzer, palettes, brushes. A familiar temptation hums in my fingertips, the impulse to put something on because someone I’m insanely attracted to—despite everything else—is here.
I hover there for a second, staring at the products. And then I feel a flare of stubborn anger.
No.
This is my home. I’m not going to dress up for him in it.
Not when he’s the reason my nerves are still buzzing. Not when my body still remembers him too well. Not when I’m already compromised in ways I can’t afford.
Deliberately, I turn away from the makeup and walk to my drawers.
I open the top one and pull out what I want without overthinking it—soft, comfortable, stay-at-home clothes. The things I wear when no one is watching. An oversized T-shirt, worn thin from washes, and a pair of loose lounge shorts I’ve had for years. Practical. Unimpressive.
I set them on the bed and unwrap my hair from the towel.
I stand in my bedroom for another minute with my hands on my hips, staring at absolutely nothing.
My skin is done. My hair is done. My excuses are running out.
I smooth lotion over my arms, tug the oversized T-shirt down over my shorts, and take one last look at myself in the mirror—bare-faced, hair loose and damp, comfortable. Normal.
Then I can’t stretch it anymore.
I step out of my bedroom and walk into the main living area.
My apartment opens up the second you leave the hallway—high ceilings that make the space feel big, tall windows that pull in light even when the day is gray, an open concept living area and kitchen with a wide island separating the spaces without closing them off.
The kitchen is clean now—my frantic earlier work still evident in the clear counters and the closed dishwasher.
The living area looks lived-in but presentable: couch facing the TV, a few shelves with books and framed photos.
The whole place has that New York trick of being both efficient and somehow airy.
I expect Antonio to be on the couch. Or standing by the window. Or leaning against the island. Or—something.
He isn’t.
I frown before I can stop myself.
The couch is empty. No jacket. No shoes. No tall, too-present man making my apartment feel small.
I turn my head, scanning the kitchen, the island, the little sitting corner by the window. Not that there’s anywhere to hide in here.
My eyes narrow in irritation.
I backtrack down the hallway, knock on the bathroom door. When there’s no answer, I turn the knob and find it still slightly foggy from my shower, but empty. I step back into the hallway and stop at the spare bedroom. I glance in.
Bed neatly made. No sign of him. No bags. No anything.
I exhale sharply and walk back toward the living area, confused now.
Did he leave?
He wouldn’t. Not after everything he said. Not after insisting—
The sound of my front door opening cuts through my thoughts.
I freeze.
Antonio steps in, holding two duffel bags. He closes the door behind him with a quiet click, then stops when he sees me.
And I see the exact moment he has to make an effort not to look.
His gaze starts to dip—toward my bare legs—then catches and drags itself back up to my face like it’s on a leash.
I curse myself immediately. Why did I wear shorts?
I fold my arms across my chest on instinct, even though it doesn’t change what’s visible. It just makes me feel less… exposed.
“What are you doing?” I ask because my brain is still catching up to the fact that he is back in my apartment.
His eyes flick over me once, then away again. “Getting some stuff.”
My eyes narrow. “How did you leave and come back in without being buzzed in?”
Antonio’s mouth tightens. “I tested your security. I wanted to know if you’re as safe as you think you are.”
I stare at him. “So you just walked out and walked back in, and no one stopped you?”
This building is supposed to have excellent security.
He exhales, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “I didn’t do just that exactly.”
My stomach drops.
He shifts the bags in his hands and steps farther in. “It’s good security, but if someone wants to get in,” he says, “they can.”
I hold his gaze, baffled and angry and—uncomfortably—relieved all at once that he’s taking this seriously.
“What does that mean?” I demand.
“It means your building security isn’t as adequate as I’d like,” he says simply.
I stare at him for another beat, then pay attention to his duffel bags.
I swallow, forcing myself to focus on something that isn’t how exposed my legs are or the fact that he can apparently get through my building with two big bags with no problem.
“You don’t have to sleep on the couch,” I say, gesturing down the hall. “You can take the spare bedroom.”
Antonio’s expression doesn’t change much, but something in his gaze firms. “I prefer the couch.”
I blink. “Why? It’s not even big enough for you.”
“It’s the best place for me to be,” he says. “Security-wise. I’m between you and the front door. I can hear the elevator. I can see the entry. I can move fast.”
So much for putting him behind a closed door, I think, bitterness flashing sharp in my chest.
I force my voice steady. “Fine.”
And then, because I can’t help it, I add, “I didn’t realize you were going to… audit my entire building.”
His mouth twitches, almost a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I haven’t even begun.”
He walks in with his bags, and I step aside for him to pass without brushing against me. I watch as he sets both bags on the floor at the end of the couch and pulls the zipper open on one of the bags.
“I didn’t really take you for a two-suitcase kind of guy,” I say, walking closer.
He stops what he’s doing and looks up at me, and for the first time since he walked in, a real smile touches his mouth.
“Only one is personal,” he says.
My brows knit. “And the other?”
His smile fades back into business. “Supplies.”
Supplies.
The word makes me catch my breath. Vague. My brain wants to picture the worst. Weapons, or whatever else someone like Antonio might be too familiar with.
I move to the couch because standing makes me feel too exposed. I sit on the edge and tuck one leg under me, a small, nervous instinct that I hate because it makes me feel… smaller.
“Like this,” he says, obviously sensing my nerves.
He pulls out a laptop and sets it on the coffee table, followed by a slim case and a pouch that clinks softly when he sets it down.
My throat tightens.
“What is all that?” I ask.
“Surveillance supplies,” he says. “Some added security for the doors and windows.”
“Oh,” I say and let out my breath slowly.
He straightens from his crouch and comes to sit next to me.
“I’m not going to lie to you and pretend there aren’t any weapons in that bag or that I’m not carrying any,” he says. “But it’s defense. That’s all.”
My stomach twists anyway.
“And you’re just… going to set up surveillance in my apartment,” I say, trying to keep the edge out of my voice and failing.
He nods once. “Only the perimeter,” he says. “Entry points. Door. Windows. Look at me,” he says when my eyes drop. I reluctantly lift them back to his. “I’m not putting cameras in your bedroom or bathroom. Nothing facing inward, Elsa. I’m not here to spy on you.”
His eyes hold mine as I process his words.
I nod once, stiffly.
“Okay?” he asks, like he needs to hear it.
“Okay,” I repeat, and my voice is surprisingly steady.
“Good,” he murmurs, and the tension in his shoulders eases by a fraction. “And if there’s anything you want me to explain, you ask.”
I let out a slow breath. “You’re… very confident about all this.”
“I told you they’ll do whatever it takes,” he says, and my breath catches at the determined look that jumps into his eyes. “But so will I. And I’m going to win because it matters more to me. You matter more to me.”