Chapter 2
1448 Words
11:12 p.m.
The red numbers on the digital clock glared at me. 11:12. 11:13.
I was pacing. Four steps to the window, four steps back. dodging the orange Home Depot bucket I’d set out to catch the leak.
Drip. Drip. Splat.
The sound was scraping against my nerves. Or maybe that was just the terror.
I stopped at the dresser. Picked up the cheap plastic frame. Me and Elena. Coney Island, 2012. We were sticky with cotton candy and she was laughing at something I said. I couldn't remember what.
I rubbed my thumb over her face until the glass squeaked.
"Phase two," I whispered. The room swallowed the sound. "I’m going back."
My chest did that thing—that sharp, cracking ache that happened every time I spoke to her ghost. I shoved it down. Ignored it. Grief was heavy. Rage was lighter. Easier to carry.
I turned to the mirror I’d duct-taped to the closet door.
I looked… generic.
No pencil skirts. No heels. I was wearing black jeans with a hole in the knee where I’d snagged it on a turnstile. A black tee that was soft from too many washes. Flats that pinched my pinky toe.
I didn't dress to impress him. I dressed to look harmless. Like I didn't have a plan. Like I wasn't walking into a lion's den with a knife in my teeth.
I grabbed my bag. Phone (screen cracked). Keys. The pepper spray Elena bought me for my eighteenth birthday.
I gripped the plastic canister hard. It wouldn't stop a guy like Luca De Luca. But holding it stopped my hands from shaking.
I left. Locked the deadbolt. Jiggled it three times to be sure. I ran down the stairs because the elevator smelled like bleach and old urine and I couldn't handle the smell tonight.
Outside, the air was wet. November in New York. Cold enough to hurt.
I flagged a cab. The driver didn’t look at me. Just grunted when I said, "Midtown."
I sat in the back. The vinyl seat was sticky. I watched Brooklyn dissolve into the city skyline and my leg wouldn't stop bouncing.
Why midnight?
Why the penthouse?
Maybe he knew. Maybe he saw me on the cameras. Maybe I walk in, the door locks, and I never walk out.
Lonely men don't kill their secretaries, I told myself.
Yeah. And billionaires don't execute women in alleyways. But here we are.
The cab pulled up to the tower. A black glass needle stabbing the clouds. I paid cash. Counted the crumbled bills. No tip. I needed the money for laundry.
Ray was at the desk. He looked up from his crossword.
"Late one, Miss Rossi?"
"Boss never sleeps, Ray." I forced a smile. It felt tight. Like dried clay.
"Be safe."
"Always."
Private elevator. Gold card. The doors slid shut with a hush that cost more than my rent.
Fifty-eight floors. My ears popped. My stomach hit my shoes.
Ding.
The doors opened.
And I just stopped.
It was… empty.
Not empty like ‘nobody’s home.’ Empty like a museum. Cold. Massive. Walls of glass looking out over the city. The lights down there looked like diamond dust. Beautiful.
But the silence. God, the silence.
My apartment was never quiet. Sirens. Mrs. Chen’s TV. The pipes groaning. Life.
Here? Dead air. Rich air. It smelled like lemon polish and nothingness.
The floor was polished concrete. I looked at the charcoal sofa—long, low, uncomfortable. It looked like it despised me.
The anger flared up in my throat. Hot and bitter like bile. My sister died over a debt that wouldn't even cover the cost of the rug in this room. He had all this space. All this air. And he bought it with blood.
Luca was at the window. Back to me. No jacket. Sleeves rolled. Collar open.
He looked different. Less like a CEO. More like a man who was tired of everything.
"You came," he said.
He didn't turn around.
I stayed by the elevator. Keep the exit close.
"You asked."
He turned then. Slow.
His eyes found mine. Gray. Flat. He wasn't smiling. He was just… assessing. Like I was a line item that didn't add up.
He nodded at the bar. "Drink?"
"I’m good."
He didn't push it. Just walked to the sofa and sat. The leather didn't even creak. He crossed a leg. Hands on his knees.
Big hands. I stared at them. I’d seen those hands covered in red in the photo.
"Sit," he said.
"No. I’ll stand."
His mouth twitched. "Still careful."
"Always."
He leaned back. Spread his arms out. Taking up space. Owning the room. It was annoying.
"You don't trust me," he said.
"Should I?"
Silence again. He just watched me. His gaze felt heavy. Physical. He looked at my ripped jeans. My messy hair.
Usually, guys look at me and I know what they want. Luca looked at me like he was looking for a crack in the foundation.
"You don't belong here," he said.
I blinked. "In your penthouse?"
"In this world." He tilted his head. "You're too soft. Too real. Places like this… they eat people like you."
I let out a noise. Half-laugh, half-scoff. "You don't know me."
"Starting to think I don't want to."
The air got thick. Heavy. Like the pressure drop before a storm hits.
I took a step. The floor was freezing through my shoes.
"Why am I here, Luca?"
I dropped the 'Mr.' on purpose. His eyes narrowed. Good.
"Because you're different," he said. His voice was rougher now. "Because you don't look at me like I’m a god. Or a monster. You look at me like I’m just a man."
My mouth went dry.
If you only knew.
"And that bothers you?"
"It confuses me."
"Good."
He stood up. Uncoiling. He didn't come closer, but the energy in the room shifted. Spiked.
"I don't like games I don't understand, Isabella."
"Then maybe stop inviting strangers over at midnight."
He smiled. A real one this time. Small. It made my chest twist. I hated that.
"You're not a stranger. Not anymore."
I looked away. I couldn't handle the look on his face.
"I need a drink," he muttered. He turned his back. Walked to the bar.
I exhaled. My eyes darted around the room. Hunting.
Bookshelf. Big. Showy. Books that had never been cracked open. An abstract painting—red and black, ugly as sin.
Then I saw it.
Bottom shelf. Shadowed.
A box. Wooden. Carved. Old.
It didn't fit. Everything here was glass and chrome. This was… personal.
Luca was clinking ice into a glass. Clink. Clink.
I moved. Quiet.
My eyes were glued to that shelf.
Walnut? Maybe.
My fingers twitched. I wanted to open it. The urge was physical. An itch under my skin.
I took a step. Then another.
I was close enough to see the dust on the lid.
I reached out. My hand hovered. Just a peek. Just to see if it was locked.
Clack.
The bottle hit the counter hard.
I snatched my hand back. Stepped away. My heart slammed against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Luca turned. Glass in hand. He looked at me. Then he looked at the shelf.
My blood went cold.
"You don't relax," he said. "Ever."
He missed it. Or he was pretending.
"I relax when I’m home," I lied. My voice was steady. Miracle.
"This could be home."
I laughed. Sharp. "You don't know what home means."
He didn't argue. He walked toward me. Stopped right in front of me. I had to tilt my head back to see his face.
He smelled like soap and warm skin and danger.
"I should go," I whispered. Weak.
"It's late."
"I know the way."
He leaned in. I could feel the heat coming off him.
"Isabella."
I met his eyes. Dark. Dilated.
"What?"
"Be careful."
"Of what?"
He bent down. His breath hit my ear.
"Of everything."
I froze. Threat? Warning?
He pulled back. Face blank again.
I nodded. Jerky. Turned around and walked to the elevator. My legs felt like they were wading through mud.
I hit the button. Doors opened.
He didn't stop me.
He just stood there. Hands in pockets. Watching me run.
The doors closed.
I leaned against the metal wall. My knees gave out. I slid down a few inches, catching myself. Shaking.
Phase two. Done.
He was intrigued. He was watching. He didn't know I was hunting him.
And I’d seen the box.
Tomorrow, I’d come back. Tomorrow, I’d smile.
Elena’s killer thought he was playing with a mouse.
He didn't know the mouse had teeth.
- Writer
