A real smile finally breaks through the mask. Tension drains from my muscles like dirty water swirling down a drain, leaving behind a light, dull exhaustion. The name is Grace Miller. The location is home. The danger is gone.
Leo's favorite cup, the red plastic one with the faded giraffe, sits on the counter. Apple juice pours in a golden, amber stream, the sweet scent filling the small kitchen, chasing away the metallic tang of fear that had coated my tongue just minutes ago.
"Coming, sweetie!" The voice is steady. Almost cheerful.
In response, the living room offers the sound of concentrated, rhythmic breathing and another chaotic crash of wooden blocks. The tower fell again.
A chuckle escapes my lips. It feels good. Normal.
Turning to the cabinet, my hand reaches for a glass for myself. Something cold. Something to wash away the phantom taste of adrenaline. My gaze drifts past the sink, toward the small, square window above the faucet.
It looks out onto the back alley. Usually, it offers nothing but a view of the gray, moss-slicked brick wall of the butcher shop opposite, overflowing dumpsters, and perpetually wet gravel. It is the unglamorous, forgotten backside of the town.
But today, the view is different.
The glass slips.
Gravity takes over before the mind can even register the mistake. It hits the linoleum with a violent smash, exploding into a thousand glittering shards. Apple juice splashes onto my jeans, cold and sticky. A tiny shard nicks my ankle, a sharp sting that barely registers.
Because the body has turned to ice.
He is there.
Not in a car. Not surrounded by a phalanx of bodyguards. Just him.
He is leaning casually against the wet brick wall of the butcher shop, as if he’s been waiting there for hours. One hand is shoved into the pocket of his perfectly tailored black pants. His black shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, exposing the column of his throat to the cold, and an expensive black wool coat hangs open, heavy with rain.
He is staring right at the window. Right at me.
This is not a coincidence. This is not a tourist checking a map. This is not paranoia.
This is Dante Rinaldi.
Time fractures. The sound of Leo babbling in the living room continues, but it sounds miles away, underwater. The only reality is the man in the alley.
He’s different. Three years haven't softened him; they’ve sharpened him. He was always tall, always powerful, radiating a dangerous kind of gravity. But now, there is a predatory stillness to him that is new. His shoulders look broader, the line of his jaw sharper, carved from granite. He doesn't look like a reckless heir anymore. He looks like a king who has conquered everything in his path.
And he looks harder. Colder.
Rain slicks his dark hair back from his face, water dripping down his forehead, but he doesn't blink. He doesn't wipe it away. His gaze is a physical weight, pinning me to the spot.
A scar.
A new, thin white line cuts through his left eyebrow, disappearing into his temple. It doesn't mar the devastating perfection of his face. It ruins it in the most beautiful, terrifying way possible, making him look lethal. Asymmetrical. Broken.
His eyes. God, those eyes. Memories supply images of them laughing, burning with dark fire, softening when he whispered my name. Now, across the rain-swept alley, they are two empty, abyssal pits. There is no surprise in them. No shock at finding a ghost.
There is only triumph.
He knew. He didn't stumble upon this apartment. He knew exactly which window to look at. He wasn't searching. He was waiting.
Blood drains from my face, leaving me lightheaded. A stumble backward sends a shoe crunching onto broken glass.
"No. No, no, no, no."
A hand flies to my mouth, stifling the scream tearing its way up from the chest.
He sees me. He's here.
The brain misfires, frantically trying to process the impossible. Run? Where? The apartment is a box. Scream? The rain drowns everything out.
The locks.
The thought is a lifeline. The doors are locked.
Eyes locked on his, I take another step back. Safety lies in the hardware. The front door is bolstered by a heavy deadbolt and the brass chain. It’s impenetrable. He can’t get in. He’s just a man standing in an alley.
Dante moves.
A smirk, cruel and slight, twists the corner of his mouth. A acknowledgment. I see you, Eliza.
He knows I'm trapped.
Slowly, with a terrifying, languid grace, he pushes his shoulder off the brick wall. He pulls his hand from his pocket.
Panic explodes.
"Leo," the whisper is harsh, desperate. "Leo, come to mama..."
I have to grab him. We have to hide. The bathroom? It has a lock. A flimsy one, but it’s something.
Dante takes a step. He turns away from the window, moving out of the frame.
He’s disappearing from view.
He’s going around.
The realization hits like a physical blow. He’s leaving the alley. He’s walking toward the street side. Toward the main entrance.
The front door.
He’s going to the front door.
Logic screams through the terror. It’s the only way in. He has to walk around the block to get to the side entrance, come up the stairs, and try the main door.
The main door has the chain.
That thought is the only thing keeping me upright. The deadbolt can be picked, maybe. But the chain? The chain is manual. It’s solid brass. He can’t open it from the outside. It buys time. Time to call the police. Time to scream.
I spin around, abandoning the kitchen, abandoning the mess of glass.
"Mama, owie?" Leo is standing in the doorway, eyes wide, pointing at the blood on my ankle.
"It's okay, baby," the lie shakes violently. "Go to your room. Now. Go."
I don't wait for him. I sprint down the short hallway to the front door.
I throw my weight against it, checking the locks I just secured minutes ago.
Deadbolt: Thrown. Chain: Engaged.
Breath comes in jagged, painful gasps. I press my ear to the heavy wood of the door, listening. Listening for footsteps on the stairs. Listening for the heavy tread of expensive shoes on the landing.
Silence.
Just the rain outside and the roar of blood in my ears.
He’s coming. He’s walking around. He’ll be here in a minute.
My hand hovers over the chain, ensuring it’s seated deep in the track. My only defense. My wall.
Come on, Dante. Try it. You can't get in.
The anticipation is agony. Every muscle is rigid, braced for the sound of a fist pounding on the wood, or the doorbell ringing. I stare at the handle, waiting for it to turn.
And then, the sound comes.
But it’s not a pound. It’s not a demand.
It’s a knock.
Heavy. Measured. Unhurried.
KNOCK.
I jump, a violent flinch that nearly sends me to the floor. Eyes fixate on the wood in front of me.
KNOCK.
Wait.
The wood didn't vibrate. The sound didn't come through the door.
KNOCK.
The sound is too loud. It's too clear. And it’s hollow.
My scream dies in my throat, choking me in a silent, gagging sob.
I slowly turn my head, looking back down the hallway. Back toward the room I just fled.
The sound isn't coming from the hallway. It isn't coming from the front door with its chain and its safety.
It’s coming from behind me.
From the kitchen.