Page 41 of Shadowman

It took a while, though not as long as you’d think. Eventually, his name popped up on DoorDash, and I had myin. I got his food and brought it to him, just like the last time. Only this time, I had a more concrete plan.

You know what they say about making plans, right?

He came to the door in just his joggers again, showing off that damn perfectly sculpted eight-pack covered in smooth, unmarked olive skin. I swallowed roughly, forcing myself to look anywhere else. He was holding a stack of papers as he jaunted over, and I managed to sneak a peek at them… It looked like a script.

So hewasan actor. Or at least he was trying to be.The community theater thing makes sense now…

“Hey, again,” he murmured as I handed him the takeout bag. He tilted his head, a curious gleam in his ocean eyes. “You ever take that helmet off?”

“Sometimes…” I grumbled stupidly, and he chuckled. My jaw ticked while my stomach flipped, and I cleared my throat to distract myself from it. “Rehearsing?” I nodded to the papers in his hand.

“Auditioning,” he corrected in a humbled, almost self-deprecating tone. As if he didn’t think he was good enough for whatever he was doing, but he was going to do it, anyway.

I could relate…But damn him for once again being so real.

“For what?” I asked, though not surewhy.

He peeked at me, our eyes connecting through the open visor of my helmet. “Little Shop of Horrors.”

“Cool,” I breathed. “Well… I hope you get it.”

What are you doing?? Why would you say that??

He smiled bright, perfectly straight white teeth on display. “Thanks, Ghost Rider.”

“Mhm…” I turned away before I could implicate myself anymore.

I heard him hum, “Goodnight,” behind me, but I was more focused on the tape I’d subtly slipped over the door mechanism.

I wandered around for a couple of hours, waiting for him to go to sleep, all the while wondering what in the hell I was even doing. I was being driven by something else entirely, something I didn’t understand, but that filled me with an almost thrilling sense of mortality.

Usually, my stalking was just harmless fun. Some might call it weird, or creepy—orillegal—and all of those things would be accurate. But I’d gotten used to doing it over the years. I was comfortable with it. Itcomfortedme.

I’ve always been the quiet kid. The kid with only a handful of friends, but who preferred being alone. None of my friends really knew me, but it was okay. Because I was better at being in the shadows, anyway.Still am.

But something about Michelangelo had a very real hold on me. I just hoped, for my sanity’s sake, that breaking in and breakinghimwould break the spell.

When the lights turned off in his townhouse, I went back and crept inside quietly. Stealth, like a cat burglar or a jewel thief. Helmet off, but still protected by my face mask, just in case.

Adrenaline had my pulse popping as I wandered farther inside. The rush I got from doing this was unlikeanythingI’d felt before. Being inside someone’s space without them knowing… It got me so much higher than simplywatchingever had.

Chills of excitement wove through my limbs while I snuck around a corner, peeking left and right, listening for any noise. He seemed to live alone, which was still odd to me. The place wasenormous—at least one visible set of stairs leading to another floor. And the decor wasn’t what you’d expect of a twenty-something Broadway kid. It looked like they’d used John Gotti’s decorator.

In his sitting room, I went for some framed photos on the mantle. And right there, front and center, was the explanation for all of it.

It was Michelangelo smiling, standing in between an older couple who were clearly his parents. I recognized them immediately.

Michelangelo…Russo. As in AntonioRusso. The Governor of New York.

Michelangelo is Governor Russo’s son.

“Holy fucking shit…” I whispered, an instant ball of dread forming in my gut.

I’d just broken into the governor’s home. I was standing in theGovernor of New York’sfucking living room, after having stalked his son incessantly for almost a month.

My first instinct was to flee. To run the fuck out of there and never look back—it certainly would’ve been thesmartthing to do. But instead, I took a moment to breathe and think.

Clearly, this wasn’t Governor Russo’s primary residence. I was pretty sure I remembered hearing that he lived in Long Island somewhere. This was most likely just his place in the city he used occasionally. Where hissonlived, like the entitled, wealthy-as-fuck son of a politician he undoubtedly was.