Chapter 29 Anthony
Anthony
My phone buzzes against my palm, and my heart nearly stops when I see her name. Lila. After two months of silence, of giving her the space she asked for, she’s finally reaching out. I read her message three times, making sure I’m not imagining things:
Lila: It’s done. The divorce is final. I’m ready to see you now, if you still want to meet.
My fingers tremble as I type back, trying to sound calmer than I feel, like I haven’t been checking my phone every five minutes for weeks hoping to hear from her.
Me: I’ve been waiting to hear from you. Name the place and time.
Simple. Direct. Not revealing how my stomach is doing somersaults or how my pulse is racing like I’ve just run a marathon.
Her response comes almost immediately:
Lila: The bookstore. Tonight at 7?
The bookstore. Where this all began. Where I first saw her, first spoke to her. It feels right, bringing this full circle. I glance at my watch, 4:30. Two and a half hours to prepare for the moment I’ve been both dreading and longing for.
Me: I’ll be there. No masks this time. Just me.
I set the phone down on my kitchen counter and let out a long, shaky breath.
This is it. No more hiding, no more secrets.
After tonight, Lila will know for sure who I am.
Not just the masked man who’s been watching her, but Anthony Russo, GameStream owner, Mia’s brother, and the man who’s fallen hopelessly in love with her.
What the fuck do I wear to reveal myself to the woman I’ve been essentially stalking?
As much as I hate using that word. The thought is so absurd I actually laugh out loud; the sound echoing in my empty townhouse.
I head to my closet, pushing aside the dark clothing I wore for my nighttime watches. Tonight, I need to look like myself.
I settle on dark jeans and a charcoal gray button-down, simple but nice. A heavy jacket and my helmet. Not trying too hard, but not casual either. I want her to see me as I am, the real Anthony, not the mysterious figure who followed her or the businessman who runs GameStream.
In the shower, I let hot water pound against my shoulders, trying to wash away the anxiety building in my chest. What if she actually hasn’t figured out who I am, and she’s angry when she sees me? What if she’s disappointed? What if she’s expecting something better than me?
No. I can’t go down that road. Whatever happens tonight, at least it will be honest. At least we’ll finally face each other without masks or secrets between us.
I dress carefully, taking more time than usual. Check my reflection in the mirror, I look nervous, which feels appropriate. I run a hand through my still-damp hair, wondering if I should have gotten it cut. Too late now. Besides, this is who I am.
The mask sits on my dresser, those green X’s staring up at me. I should leave it here. Show up as myself, no props, no dramatic reveal. But something tells me to bring it. One last time, to close this chapter properly. I slip it into my jacket pocket, the familiar weight oddly comforting.
Before I leave, I need to do one more thing. I grab my phone and pull up Mia’s contact.
Me: Going to meet Lila at the bookstore at 7. She’s ready to see me. Tonight she finds out her stalker is her best friend’s brother.
I hit send before I can overthink it. Mia and I have had several conversations about this moment, about when and how I would reveal myself to Lila.
She’s been surprisingly supportive, given how furious she was when she first discovered my identity at the club.
I think she understands now that my feelings for Lila are real, not some twisted game.
My phone buzzes with Mia’s response.
Mia: About time. Don’t fuck up... again. She deserves the truth.
I smile at her directness. Mia never sugarcoats anything, which is one of the things I love about her. And she’s right. Lila deserves the complete truth, every uncomfortable, messy detail of it.
Me: I know. I’ll tell her everything. Wish me luck.
Mia: You don’t need luck. You need honesty. But good luck anyway. Call me after.
I tuck my phone into my pocket and grab my motorcycle keys. The ride to the bookstore will give me time to collect my thoughts, to prepare what I’ll say when I’m finally face to face with her, no masks between us.
The winter air hits me like a slap when I step outside, cool and crisp with the promise of spring not far behind.
I zip my jacket against the chill and swing my leg over my bike, the familiar leather seat steadying me.
The engine roars to life, and I pull away from the curb, heading toward The Dark Chapters Bookstore.
Traffic is light, and I find myself taking the long way, extending the ride to give myself more time to think.
What will I say to her? “Sorry I stalked you, but I love you” doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.
Yet that’s essentially the truth of it. I’ve watched her, followed her, invaded her privacy.
All while telling myself it was to protect her.
And somewhere along the way, protection became devotion, obsession became love.
Will she see it that way? Or will she see a man who couldn’t respect her boundaries, who appointed himself her protector without her consent? I wouldn’t blame her if she walked away tonight and never looked back. But God, I hope she doesn’t.
I pull into the bookstore parking lot at 6:45, cutting the engine and sitting for a moment on my bike. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard it almost hurts. I scan the lot for her car but don’t see it. Maybe she’s not here yet. Was she dropped off? Maybe she changed her mind.
I get off the bike and pull the mask from my pocket, turning it over in my hands. One last time. I slip it over my face, feeling the familiar press of it against my skin. It feels different now, like a costume I’ve outgrown.
The door sensor plays a short jingle as I push it open, the smell of books and coffee washing over me. The bookstore is quiet tonight, just a few customers browsing the shelves. I scan the space, looking for her red hair, those distinctive blonde streaks.
She’s not at the front. Not by the registers. Not in the main aisle. I move deeper into the store, past self-help and history, toward the back corner where I know the romance section is. That’s where I found her that first day, browsing dark romances with their dramatic covers and tangled lovers.
And there she is.
She stands with her back to me, one hand tracing the spines of books on a shelf at eye level.
Her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, those blonde streaks catching the light.
She’s wearing a simple black dress that hugs her curves and a heavy black sweater, making my mouth go dry.
Even after everything,the club, the hospital, the divorce and everything in between.
The sight of her still hits me like a physical force.
I approach quietly, not wanting to startle her. When I’m just a few feet away, she turns, as if sensing my presence. Her eyes find mine through the mask, and the corner of her mouth lifts in a small, knowing smile.
“I thought you said no masks,” she says, her voice softer than I remember.
“I thought it would be fitting,” I reply, taking another step closer. “To end this the way it began.”
She nods, understanding in her eyes. “Then let me see you. The real you.”
I stand perfectly still as she closes the distance between us. Her hands rise slowly, hesitating just before they touch the mask. I can smell her perfume. Something light and floral, honeysuckle and jasmine. It makes me think of spring, of new beginnings.
“May I?” she asks, her fingers hovering at the edges of my mask.
“Please,” I whisper, the word catching in my throat.
Her fingers are warm against my skin as she carefully lifts the mask away. I keep my eyes on hers, watching for her reaction, for any sign of disappointment or anger. Instead, I see recognition, then confirmation, then something softer I don’t dare name.
“Anthony,” she says, and hearing my name on her lips for the first time nearly undoes me. “I knew it was you.” The mask dangles from her fingers now, forgotten between us.
“How?” I ask, genuinely curious. “What gave me away?” Hinting a smile.
She smiles, and it transforms her face, making her look younger, freer.
“I started to put it together after... after that night on the steps. When you waved to me at the restaurant. And Mia has photos of you in her house. The way she reacted when she saw you at the club, the ‘family emergency’ that pulled her away from the hospital. Those things started to fit. But, I think you wanted to be found out.”
“Are you angry?” I need to know. Need to hear it from her.
She considers this, her head tilting slightly. “I was. For a while. But then I remembered how you protected me, how you called the police when Eli—” She stops, takes a breath. “I think I understand why you did it your way, even if it wasn’t... conventional.”
“You did refuse to talk to me,” I say with a small laugh.
“Most people haven’t lived my life,” she counters, and there’s a strength in her voice that wasn’t there before. “They haven’t been through what I’ve been through.”
I want to touch her. To take her hand, brush her cheek, anything…
but I hold back, not sure if we’re there yet.
“I’m in love with you,” I say instead, the words tumbling out before I can consider them.
“I knew I loved you that day you threatened me with the knife. It doesn’t make what I did right, but I need you to know that it’s not just about obsession, lust, or control. ”
Her eyes widen slightly, and for a terrible moment, I think I’ve said too much, too soon. But then she smiles again, that beautiful, transformative smile. “I know,” she says simply. “I think I’ve known for a while. You kept your word when I said I needed space.”
“And Mia?” I ask, remembering the other piece of this complicated puzzle. “Are you angry with her for keeping my secret?”
Lila shakes her head. “No. She was caught in the middle, trying to protect both of us. I understand why she didn’t tell me.”
Relief washes over me, so powerful it makes me dizzy. I reach out, finally allowing myself to touch her, just the lightest brush of my fingers against hers. “What happens now?”
“Now,” she says, taking my hand properly, her fingers intertwining with mine, “we start over. No masks, no secrets. Just Anthony and Lila.”
The feeling of her hand in mine is better than anything I could have imagined. Warm and real and present. “I’d like that,” I say, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “Maybe we could start with dinner? Akira Sushi is just down the street. We can walk.”
“I’d like that too,” she says, and there’s a lightness to her voice I’ve never heard before. “But first, I want to ask you something.”
“Anything,” I promise, meaning it completely.
“All those books you left me. Did you choose them on purpose?”
I nod, surprised she’s bringing this up now. “Yes. I wanted to... I don’t know, plant seeds, I guess. See what things you might be okay with. It was my way of getting to know you. And I wanted you to see that you deserved better than Eli, that you had the strength to leave.”
She considers this, then says, “Thank you. For seeing that strength in me before I could see it in myself.”
Something shifts between us in that moment, some final piece falling into place. She tugs gently on my hand. “Come on. I’m starving, and you owe me at least one proper date after all the drama.”
We walk toward the front of the store, still hand in hand. I glance down at the mask she’s still holding. “What do you want to do with that?”
She looks at it for a moment, then tucks it into her purse. “Keep it as a reminder, I think. Of where we started. Maybe you can wear it again, but just for fun.”
Outside, the evening air has grown colder, but I barely notice.
We walk the short distance to Akira Sushi, making small talk about the chill in the air and whether or not we think it will snow soon.
Normal conversation, the kind people have when they’re getting to know each other the normal way.
It feels strange and wonderful all at once.
As we wait for the hostess to seat us, Lila turns to me, her expression suddenly serious. “I want you to know something. I’m not... fixed. What happened with Eli, it left scars. Not just the physical ones. I’m still working through a lot of things.”
“I know,” I say, matching her seriousness. “And I’m not asking you to be fixed. I’m just asking for a chance to know you, the real you. The rest we’ll figure out together, at whatever pace you need.”
Her smile returns, smaller but no less genuine. “I’d like that,” she says, echoing my words from earlier. “One day at a time.”
“One day at a time,” I agree, and as the hostess leads us to a table by the window, I feel a sense of rightness, of coming home. No more masks, no more shadows.