Chapter 5
1369 Words
The elevator ride down was a blur. Gravity dragged at my stomach, forty floors of freefall.
My knees were useless. Water. I leaned against the cold metal wall, eyes squeezed shut, trying to find the floor.
The ghost of his breath was still on my mouth. Warm. Whiskey. Warning.
The heat of his knuckles still burned on my cheek like a brand.
He has her necklace.
That thought should have been ice water. It should have frozen the fire in my belly. It should have sent me running to the nearest precinct to file a report.
I didn't run to the police. I walked out of the lobby, past the stiff security guard who looked at me like I was glass, and into the chaos of Midtown.
The street was screaming. Tourists. Gridlock. The billboards turned the night sky a sickly, bruised purple. Too loud. Too bright.
I hugged my arms tight to my chest.
Dirty. That’s how I felt.
I had stood inches from the man who likely buried my sister, and I hadn't screamed. I hadn't stabbed him.
I had blushed. Shivered. My body had softened against him like a traitor.
I hailed a yellow cab. The subway was impossible tonight. Too many bodies. Too many eyes.
"Brooklyn," I rasped, sliding onto the cracked leather seat. "Crown Heights."
The cab lurched forward. The city smeared past the dirty window. Red brake lights. White headlights. Wet pavement.
We hit the bridge. Tires humming on the metal grates. Below, the East River was a black void. Behind me, Manhattan receded, a cluster of diamonds on black velvet. Beautiful. Fake.
Why keep the locket?
Trophies. That’s what the podcasts always said. Serial killers keep souvenirs to relive the high. To feel the power again. He kept it in a box that didn't lock. Right in the open. Like he wanted someone to find it.
Or maybe he just didn't care. Maybe he was so arrogant he thought he was untouchable.
But the way he looked at me... that wasn't the look of a man seeing a victim. It was the look of a man seeing a challenge. A puzzle he wanted to take apart with his teeth.
I pressed my forehead against the cold glass. The vibration of the engine rattled my teeth.
Sick. I was sick. Elena was rotting in a grave, and I was in a backseat wondering what Luca De Luca tasted like.
Crown Heights was quieter. Darker.
I paid the driver and scrambled out. The air here smelled different. Exhaust and old garbage, not expensive cologne and rain.
I walked fast. Keys woven between my fingers. A weapon.
The hallway of my building smelled of Mrs. Chen’s boiled cabbage and decades of dust. Usually, it comforted me. Tonight, the shadows in the corners looked like men in suits.
I fumbled with the lock. Got inside.
The apartment was an icebox.
The radiator hissed, clanking away, but the heat died before it hit the air. Deadbolt. Chain. Bottom lock.
Safe.
I didn't take off my coat. I went to the kitchen table—wobbly, scavenged from the street last year—and dumped my bag.
The stolen files spilled out.
Work, I told myself. Focus on the job.
I stared at the Milan shipping manifests. Rows of numbers. Weights. Dates.
Container 404. 5,000 kilos. Destination: Genoa.
The numbers swam. I tried to track the discrepancy, but the black ink started to blur. The columns didn't look like shipping data anymore. They looked like bars of a cage.
My hand went to my cheek. The spot where he touched me tingled. It wasn't fading. It was spreading. A heat rash moving down my neck.
I shoved the papers away. They scattered onto the floor.
I couldn't work. Not with him under my skin.
Bathroom. Now.
I needed to scrub away the scent of sandalwood and eighteen-year-old scotch. I needed to be Isabella again. Not the girl in the penthouse.
Handle twisted left. Hard. Hot. Scalding.
Clothes off. Silk blouse, skirt—kicked into the corner. I peeled them off like dead skin.
I stepped in.
Liquid fire hit me. It stung, turning flesh pink. Good. Pain was better. Pain cleansed. I wanted to burn the memory of his touch right off the bone.
Soap. Rough, cheap bar that smelled like synthetic lavender. I scrubbed my arm where his shoulder had brushed mine. Scrubbed my cheek where his knuckles grazed.
You look pale.
The voice bounced off the tile. Low. Deep. A vibration rattling my ribs.
I closed my eyes.
Mistake.
Darkness brought him back. I wasn't in my rusting shower; I was in the penthouse. The steam turned into the fog of his whiskey breath.
Gray eyes. Gold specks. The white shirt straining against broad shoulders. The ropes of vein in his forearms as he held the glass.
I groaned, head tilting back against the wet tile.
"Stop it." A whisper. A plea.
My body didn't listen. My body didn't give a damn about murder or justice. My body only knew that a predator had been close enough to bite, and I hadn't run away.
My hand moved.
Traitor.
I touched myself. Tentative, then harder. Desperate.
Imagining his hand.
Imagining a rough, warm palm sliding down my stomach. A thumb pressing against the sensitive skin of my hip. Imagining him pinning me against that dark wood table, the box clattering to the floor, the files scattering like confetti.
I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper. Silence was necessary. The walls were thin.
In my head, he wasn't gentle. He was angry. He knew I was a spy. He knew I was a liar. And he was exacting a price.
Tell me what you want, Isabella.
A gasp tore out of me, hips bucking. The pleasure was sharp, laced with guilt. A dark, heavy heat coiling low.
His mouth on my neck. His teeth scraping the pulse point.
"Luca."
The name tasted like poison.
The release hit with a sob. Quick. Violent. Shattering.
I slumped against the wall, gasping. Hot water beat down, mixing with tears I hadn't authorized.
I stood there for a long time. Shaking. Hollowed out. The heat of the water was gone, leaving me shivering.
Water off.
I wrapped myself in a thin, scratchy towel. Avoided the mirror. I didn't want to see the flush on my chest. Didn't want to see the woman who got off on sleeping with the enemy.
Bedroom. The ceiling leak greeted me. Drip. Drip. A rhythmic reminder of my real life.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
Empty. The lust had burned out, leaving cold ash and resolve.
Never again. He was using charm as a weapon. He knew I was hunting, so he was distracting the hound. Confusing the trail.
It worked.
But now I knew. I knew the danger.
Bag. Notebook.
Fresh page. Hand steady.
Black ink, three lines.
1. The Locket. 2. The Money. 3. The Attraction.
I circled the third one. Drew a thick, dark line through it.
Crossed it out until the paper tore.
I would find the proof. I would put him in handcuffs. I would watch the cell door slam.
And I would never let him touch me again.
Buzz.
Nightstand.
I jumped.
Text. Unknown number.
Heart hammering against ribs.
Pick it up.
You forgot your scarf. - L
I stared at the screen. The light hurt my eyes.
I hadn't worn a scarf.
Second text.
And Isabella?
Breath held.
Next time, wear the red lipstick. It suits you.
I dropped the phone like it was a live coal. It landed face up, the message glowing in the dark room.
He wasn't just watching. He was toying with me.
He knew I didn't wear a scarf. He knew I didn't own red lipstick. He was telling me he noticed everything. That he was looking at my mouth.
He thought he was the cat.
I looked at the torn paper in my notebook. The ink bled through the rip.
"Fine," I whispered to the empty room.
He wanted a game? I’d give him one. But I was done being the mouse.
Lamp off. Darkness rushed in.
Sleep never came.
- Writer
