Page 46 of Cruel Romeo

I step out. It’s surreal, showing up here in a freaking Lambo. It just doesn’t fit with the aesthetic of this old, rundown place made of crumbling brick and windows that never quite close all the way.

It’s not much. But it’s been mine since I left home. And the idea of Petyr seeing it, judging it, makes my stomach twist.

He doesn’t say anything, but I see his eyes scan the building, the alley, the guy passed out in front of the bodega next door. The silence is loud. I want to shrink back into the seat. Better yet, wake up in my ratty old bed and realize this was all a weird-ass fever dream.

Petyr lifts an eyebrow. “You live here.”

“Yep.”

“Alone.”

“I mean, if you don’t count Dorito.” When he gives me a quizzical look, I elaborate. “Mrs. Lessing’s cat. Not a big fan of personal space, that one.”

Petyr’s frown deepens.

“Look, it’s rent-controlled, okay?” I explain. “That’s basically a unicorn in this city. And Dorito’s actually pretty nice once you learn not to roll in your sleep.”

He doesn’t argue, but his mouth does that tight-lipped thing that says he’s mentally listing all the ways he thinks this place is a death trap. I don’t know why I care, but I do.

We climb the narrow stairwell. The peeling paint on the handrail flakes under my fingertips. Everything smells faintly of mildew and old Chinese takeout.

Petyr walks just behind me, silent but alert, like in those horror video games with a million jump scares. Like he’s expecting shit to go sideways any second now.

Turns out, his instincts weren’t wrong.

I touch the handle of my apartment door. And… it’s unlocked.

Why is it unlocked? I didn’t leave it unlocked. I may not be rich, but I’m not stupid. “Petyr, do you?—”

“Wait.” His whisper slices through the silence. He puts his arm in front of me and steps forward with his gun drawn.

It’s all I can do to keep staring at the door. Ajar, a little off-centered, the frame splintered where it shouldn’t be. My pulse starts jumping.

“Let’s go,” I whisper, trying to tug Petyr back. The sinking feeling in my gut is telling me he shouldn’t be going in there, either. “You were right; we should have sent someone. So let’s just go back and?—”

Too late.

Petyr pushes open the door. It creaks, like in every horror movie I’ve ever regretted watching.

Then I see it.

My apartment is trashed.

I sink to my knees on the floor before I even realize what I’m doing. My precious, dog-eared thrift-store rescue books are scattered in shreds across the floor. My small Ikea table is flipped, one chair missing a leg. The ancient couch I got for free off the curb is gutted, its stuffing spilling out like cotton entrails. My clothes, what little I have, have been pulled from drawers and tossed into piles or cut into ribbons. It’s like someone went looking for a money stash and got pissed when they couldn’t find it.

Worse, like they wanted me to know justhowpissed.

Petyr pulls me upright, pushes me behind his back again. His gun is straight and steady. I don’t doubt for a second that, if he were to shoot, he’d hit his mark dead center.

I watch him move through the tiny space of my apartment with cold efficiency. Checking the kitchen, the bathroom, even the closet, before finally lowering his weapon.

“No one’s here,” he declares.

I let out a breath. I’m still rooted to the threshold, numb. This is my life—or it used to be. My eyes fall on a broken picture frame, the one photo I still have with…

Lara.

“Leave it,” Petyr says. “I’ll replace everything.”