Chapter 8 #2
"Dinner will be ready soon," he says quietly. Too quietly. "You can eat with me at the table like my good girl, or you can go back to your room and I'll bring you a tray. Your choice, tesoro."
It's not a choice. Not really. But it's the illusion of one, and right now that's all I have.
"I'll eat at the table."
He looks pleased. Satisfied.
"Good."
He goes back to the stove and I'm left standing there, wondering what the hell I'm doing. But the truth is, I'm starving. I haven't eaten since breakfast and my body doesn't care about my pride or my fear. It just wants food.
And maybe I want to see what he's like when he thinks he's won.
I watch him plate the pasta—two dishes, perfectly portioned. He carries them to the dining table, sets them down across from each other, and pulls out a chair, looking at me expectantly.
I sit. Not because he wants me to. Because I'm choosing to.
That's what I tell myself, anyway.
The pasta is perfect. The tomato sauce is rich and fragrant with garlic and basil. I take a bite and it's so good I could cry.
I don't. I just eat.
He watches me. Every bite. Every swallow. I'm the most fascinating thing in his world right now, and he's memorizing the way my throat moves.
It should creep me out.
It does creep me out.
But it also makes heat pool low in my belly.
"Why me?" I ask finally, because I need to understand. Need to make sense of this. "You could have anyone. Why stalk me for months? Why go to all this trouble?"
"I already told you." He takes a sip of wine. He poured himself a glass but didn't offer me one—keeping me off-balance, maintaining control. "In your apartment. When I had you against the wall."
"Tell me again." Because I need to hear it. Need to see if it makes more sense the second time. "Make me understand."
He sets down his glass and looks at me, his gaze intense and unwavering.
"Because you're the only person in recent months who's looked at me and seen something worth saving.
Because you smell like lavender and antiseptic and it drives me insane.
Because you tuck your hair behind your left ear when you're nervous—always the left, never the right.
" His voice drops lower, more intimate. "Because when you smile, I can almost remember what it's like to be human.
Because I can't stop thinking about you no matter how hard I try.
" He leans forward. "Because you're mine, Francesca.
You've been mine since the moment you put your hands on my body and didn't flinch. "
"That's not love. That's obsession."
"I know." No apology in his voice—pride in it, almost. "But you asked."
I want to hate how his words affect me. Want to be immune to the intensity in his gaze, the vulnerability he's showing me. But I'm not. I'm not immune at all.
And that scares me more than anything else tonight.
We eat in silence. The pasta is delicious and I'm hungrier than I thought. I clean my plate and he notices. He notices everything.
"There's more if you want it."
"I'm fine."
"Are you?"
The question hangs between us. Am I fine? No. I'm trapped in a stranger's apartment. Kidnapped by a man who's been stalking me for months. A man who kills people for a living.
But I'm also warm and fed and, in some twisted way, safer than I've been in a long time. Because he's right about one thing: my lock was a joke. My apartment wasn't secure. I've been vulnerable for years and just got lucky.
Until him.
"I don't know," I say honestly. "I don't know what I am right now."
"That's fair." He stands and collects our plates. "You should rest. It's been a long day."
"You're not going to lock me in?"
"I said I wouldn't unless you make me. I keep my word, Francesca." He carries the dishes to the sink. "Your room is yours. The bathroom is yours. The rest of the apartment you're welcome to explore. Just don't try to leave."
"And if I do?"
He turns to look at me over his shoulder. His voice goes very, very quiet. "Then I'll stop you. And I won't be gentle about bringing you back." A pause. "You won't like me when I'm not gentle, Francesca."
There's no heat in his voice. No anger. Just cold, absolute certainty.
I believe him.
I push away from the table and walk off before I do something stupid. Like ask him what he meant about not being gentle. Like wonder what his hands would feel like if I didn't fight them.
My room feels smaller now. Like the walls are closing in. I pace to the window and back, then test the door again even though I know it's unlocked.
It is. Just like he promised.
I could explore. He said I could. The rest of the apartment is open to me.
The hallway is empty. I can hear him moving around in the kitchen, the sound of water running as he does the dishes.
I move quietly down the hall, past my room, past the locked door that I now know leads somewhere he doesn't want me.
The living room is huge. The furniture is expensive but impersonal. Black leather couch. Glass coffee table. No photos. No personal touches. Nothing that says who lives here except money.
There's a bookshelf against one wall. I move toward it, running my fingers along the spines. Machiavelli. Sun Tzu. Tom Clancy. And mixed in with the strategy and war, some surprises. Dante. Petrarch. A worn copy of The Count of Monte Cristo.
The shelves are styled like something out of Architectural Digest. A marble sculpture of a hand.
Heavy brass bookends shaped like lions. A crystal decanter with amber liquid inside.
The bottom shelf has records—actual vinyl.
I pull one out. Puccini. La Bohème. The cover is worn, played a thousand times.
I go to slide it into place but my hand hovers over one of the brass bookends. Heavy. Solid. The kind of thing that could crack a skull if swung hard enough.
I pull away.
What am I doing? I'm not a killer. And even if I were, what would be the point? He's faster than me. Stronger. And some sick part of me doesn't want to hurt him anyway.
"My father's," Luca says from behind me.
I don't jump. I should, but I don't. I just slide the record into place and turn to face him.
"He loved opera," he continues, moving into the room. He's changed. Barefoot now, in dark pants and a white t-shirt that stretches across his chest. Somehow more dangerous like this. More real. "He'd play it every Sunday morning. Drove my mother crazy."
"Is he dead?"
"Yes." No emotion in his voice. "Murdered. When I was eight."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. He was in the life. He knew the risks." Luca moves to a sideboard, pours himself a drink. Whiskey, from the look of it. "Your brother. Vincent. Gang violence?"
My chest tightens. "How do you know about Vincent?"
"I told you. I know everything about you, tesoro." He takes a sip, watching me over the rim of the glass. "Wrong place, wrong time?"
"Yes." The word comes out flat. It's been seven years. The sharp edges have worn down to dull ache. "He wasn't in a gang. He wasn't involved. He was just walking home from work and got caught in crossfire. He was twenty-two."
"Cazzo." The curse is quiet. "Is that why you became a nurse?"
"I was in school. General studies. Had no idea what I wanted to do." I wrap my arms around myself. "After Vincent... I switched to nursing. Most of my credits transferred to the BSN program."
"You wanted to save people. Since you couldn't save him."
"Something like that." The words come out flat. "Not that it matters. I save some. Lose others. Never enough."
Luca sets down his glass and moves toward me. The smart thing would be to back away. Put distance between us.
I don't.
"You saved me," he says quietly. "That night in the ER. You didn't have to. You could have called the police. Reported the gunshot wound. Watched them haul me away." He's close enough now that I can feel his heat. "But you didn't."
"I should have."
"But you didn't." His hand comes up, fingers brushing my cheek. "You protected me. Even then. You knew I was dangerous and you protected me anyway." His thumb traces my lower lip and my breath catches. "Why, Francesca?"
"I don't know." It's the truth. I've asked myself that question a hundred times since that night. "You looked at me and I just... I don't know."
"Yes, you do."
And maybe I do. Maybe I saw something in him that night. Something broken and dangerous and human all at once. Maybe that's why I lied. Why I protected him.
Or maybe I'm just trying to justify the unjustifiable.
"I'm tired," I say, because I can't do this anymore. Can't stand here with him touching me, looking at me like I'm the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life. "I want to go to bed."
His hand drops away slowly, reluctantly. "Then go." He doesn't move, doesn't try to stop me. "Sleep well, mia Francesca." The possessive pronoun wraps around my name—a claim, a brand.
I walk past him, down the hallway to my room. Close the door behind me. Stand there with my palm flat against the lock.
I could lock it. He said he wouldn't lock me in, but he didn't say I couldn't lock him out.
I don't. I don't know why. I just don't.
Instead, I go to the bathroom and wash my face. Brush my teeth with the toothbrush he provided. Stare at myself in the mirror and try to recognize the woman looking back at me.
She looks terrified. She looks trapped.
She looks alive in a way she hasn't felt in years.
I hate her a little bit.
I return to the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed. Sleeping in my clothes would be smart. Staying ready to run.
But I'm exhausted. Bone-deep tired in a way that has nothing to do with the hour and everything to do with the weight of this day.
I take off my shoes. My jeans. My sweater. Climb under the covers in my bra and underwear.
The sheets are soft. Egyptian cotton, probably. A thousand thread count. The kind of luxury I've never been able to afford.
I lie there in the dark, wondering which room is his. Wonder if it's the locked one. Wonder what he looks like when he sleeps. If he sleeps. If men like him even need rest or if they're always watching, always waiting, always hunting.
Any rational person would be plotting escape right now. Thinking about phones, windows, locked doors. Ways out.
Instead, I'm lying here in the dark, thinking about him in the next room.
Whether he's thinking about me too.
Why part of me hopes he is.
I close my eyes. His face fills the darkness behind my lids—the certainty in his expression when he kissed me, when he said I was his.
My heart pounds.
Because I'm starting to believe him.