Page 11

My pulse spikes, adrenaline flooding my system in an instant rush. I set my coffee down silently, reaching beneath the foyer table where my pistol waits in its hidden holster. I hate needing guns in my home, hate how my mother’s world still forces me to live with one finger always near a trigger. But I check the magazine anyway, chambering a round with practiced efficiency.
My breath slows as training takes over—the lessons my mother insisted on before I was even tall enough to reach the counter. I move through the penthouse like a ghost, checking corners first, keeping away from windows, listening for sounds beneath my own heartbeat.
I take the stairs, gun leading the way, my muscles coiled tight with anticipation. Room by room, I clear my home, turning door knobs with silent precision. Each empty space brings momentary relief, followed by mounting dread.
One room left.
My bedroom.
When I reach the door, my heart slams against my ribs. It stands slightly ajar—I know with absolute certainty I closed it this morning.
I press the gun against the wood, nudging it wider. The hinges whisper as darkness spills out. I brace for violence—for movement, gunshots, the end of everything.
But nothing comes.
I step inside, gun first, and freeze at the sight before me.
The bed remains perfectly made, but across the blue sheets lie my most private possessions—documents, photographs, letters—scattered like evidence at a crime scene. Someone has methodically dissected my life, looking for… something.
And there, lounging in my chair as if he belongs, sits a man.
Black ribbed long-sleeves clinging to broad shoulders, an expensive suit, his head cocked with predatory interest. He’s been waiting for me. Recognition hits like a physical blow. Those dark eyes. That cruel, perfect mouth that once claimed mine. The same face that’s haunted my dreams for four years.
My stomach clenches as I aim at him, arms steady despite the electricity crackling through my veins. The memory of his handson me, his weight pressing me down, clashes violently with the threat he represents now.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” My voice sounds foreign, stripped raw with fury and fear.
He straightens, and I adjust my aim, a silent reminder of who controls this moment. He pauses, eyes locked on mine, then lifts his hands in mock surrender—a gesture that reeks of condescension.
“Ciao, Alessandra.”
His voice hits me like a sucker punch, that rich Italian timber sliding over my skin just as it did that night. My body betrays me with a flash of heat—remembering his hands in my hair, his mouth against my throat, the way he made me forget everything but sensation.
No. Focus, Alessa.
“It’s been a while,” he says, smirking like this is some planned reunion rather than a home invasion.
“I said…What the Fuckare you doing here?”I demand again, ignoring how my body remembers his touch.
“Is that the right way to greet an old friend, Alessa?”
“We’re not friends,” I remind him in Italian, the language feeling too intimate on my tongue.
“Ha ragione,“ he nods with a smile. “You’re right. Friends don’t fuck.”
Heat floods my cheeks even as ice slides down my spine. I square my shoulders, refusing to show how his crude reminder affects me.
“Stop it and tell me what—”
“I’m doing here. Yeah, yeah,” he interrupts, rising from my chair, dismissing my gun like it’s a minor inconvenience. His hands slide into his pockets with casual dominance—a man who doesn’t fear consequences.
I track him with my gun, finger steady near the trigger. One wrong move, and I’ll prove I’m my mother’s daughter after all.
“Sorry for the mess,” he says, surveying the chaos. “We got bored waiting for you. I couldn’t help myself.”
I offer no response, noting how his eyes flash with amusement at my silence. He’s enjoying this—the power play, my fear barely contained beneath fury.
“I found this.” He lifts a black and white Polaroid of my mother with a woman I don’t recognize. They’re wearing sundresses and matching hats, wine glasses in hand, a vineyard stretching behind them.