MAFIA'S THORN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

FLARIE'S –POV

My cheek still tingles from the warm touch of his hands as I watch him disappear through the front door. I remain frozen where I stand, unable to move my feet as though they're somehow glued to the floor. My mind slips into a daze as I relive how my night turned into this chaotic, uncertain morning.

The first question that comes into my mind is, how does he know?

He took the keys to my front door that I usually keep in a small ceramic bowl near the entrance and unlocked the front door effortlessly like he lives here with me. There had been no searching, no look of astonishment as the lock turned beneath his hand.

I am certain I locked the door last night because I checked twice, before going to bed. I also checked the windows, looked around the apartment, my room and tested the front door knob, before finally crawling under the blankets. The memory is so vivid because I had a strange, uneasy feeling yesterday.

Yet when I opened my eyes in the middle of the night, there he was, sitting completely still in the chair across my bed in the dark. 'How did he get in?'

When my legs regain movement, I make my way toward the front door. My fingers curl around the cold metal knob, pulling the door open. I step into the hallway, glancing to the left, then to the right. Nothing is out of the ordinary.

Crouching in front of the door, which I haven't paid much attention to before, I trace my fingers around the edges of the lock, looking for anything that might be out of place. Leaning closer, I run my thumb over the metal plate surrounding the keyhole. I can feel scratch marks beneath my fingertips.

Has it always been like this or did he force his way in?

Retreating back inside, I lock the door with the keys. The lock slides back into place with a click. Twisting the knob, I pull on it but it doesn't open. It's perfectly locked, which makes this morning more confusing.

Unable to ignore the nagging thought any longer, I walk back to the living room window, shifting the curtains enough to look outside. Parked directly across from my building along the curb is a black Mercedes-Maybach. Its polished exterior gleams in the morning sun. That is his car, he hasn't moved yet. Why is he still there? The engine of the car is not even running. At this point I don't know what he might do.

He is impossible to read and doesn't answer my questions, since the night of that party at Gray Mansion, he has been weird to the point of breaking into my apartment in the middle of the night and scaring the life out of me. There has to be something more going on. Even after he's gone, the adrenaline from the whole encounter still lingers with me despite the fact that a few hours have passed.

Letting the curtain fall back into place, I rest my forehead against the cool glass of the window, closing my eyes. His word resounds in my head, "fix your door. And if you don't I'll know." This seems a little suspicious, how will he know if I don't do it?

My thoughts are interrupted by a sharp sting that spreads across my thumb. Frowning, I look down to see the bandage has turned slightly pink. My mind drifts back to Alton. The way he'd reached for my hand without warning, lifting it like it was something fragile the moment he noticed it. His eyes had remained fixed on the wound while he quietly asked how I'd gotten hurt.

The strange gentleness in his touch had been so at odds with everything else about him.

I crouch to retrieve the first-aid kit under the cabinet where it's tucked away. Setting it on the floor, I flip open the lid and slowly peel away the bandage, wincing from the pain. The cut has opened again, a thin bead of blood forming along the edge. Maybe it's from all the struggling with the door.

"It needs cleaning again." I mutter.

I take out the bottle of rubbing alcohol and twist off the cap. The sharp scent fills the room, making me wrinkle my nose. Soaking a cotton pad, I press it gently against the cut. I suck in air through my teeth from the sting. Once the wound is disinfected, I dry it carefully with a gauze before wrapping a fresh bandage around my thumb. Closing the first-aid kit, I return it to its place and rise to my feet.

Walking into my bedroom, my eyes fall on the mess left behind from the struggle with Alton. Pieces of the shattered vase scatter across the floor, the crumpled blanket hangs halfway off the bed, then my gaze lands on the chair, where Alton had been sitting.

Shaking the tension away, I fetch the broom and dustpan from the laundry closet and sweep up the shards of the vase into a pile on the dustpan, careful not to use my hand this time. The last thing I need today is another cut. I carry it to the kitchen and empty it inside the trash bin.

Back in the bedroom, I straighten the chair and smooth the blanket over the mattress. I return a few books to the nightstand where they'd fallen from.

After tidying up, the room resembles itself again. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I pick up my phone from the nightstand. Its screen lights up in my hand as I scroll through my contacts until I find the number I need. My thumb hovers over the call button. Dialing the number feels like agreeing to what he said. I exhale, and tap the screen anyway. I don't want to wake up another night, or come back to my apartment and find more unpleasant surprises.

“Hello?” a warm voice greets as it connects on the second ring.

I rub my forehead in a circular motion to get rid of the throb that is slightly building. “Hi, I need someone trusted to change my locks today.”

She speaks after a moment. “Did something happen to the old one, is it broken?”

“No, it’s not secure anymore. He came in last night.” The line falls silent, but I know she is still connected “I want a new medeco deadbolt and a security chain installed."

“Are you okay?" She asks, concern evident in her voice.

Taking a deep breath, "I am."

“I’ll send someone immediately.”

Ending the call, I lower the phone and stare at the blank screen.

Changing the locks might stop someone else, but if Alton managed to get inside once without leaving any obvious trace, who's to say a new lock will stop him?