My stomach drops as I fight to keep my expression neutral. “W-what do you want?” I ask.
His gray eyes assess me through the crack. “I think you know exactly what I want. Open the door. Now.”
Before I can respond, he lifts his leg and kicks the door. I jump back with a scream as the chain snaps with ridiculous ease, and suddenly he’s inside, crossing the threshold with the casual confidence of someone who believes every space belongs to him.
“Shut the fuck up!” The angry shout comes from one of my neighbors.
I stumble backward, my umbrella gripped uselessly at my side. “You can’t just…”
He sets the cup down with a surgical calm that’s somehow worse than yelling. Steam coils up between us like smoke off a fuse.
“Where is it?” he asks as he turns to face me fully, hands sliding into his pockets with deceptive casualness.
“Where’s what?” I ask even though I know exactly what he means.
“My lighter. The silver one you stole while I was in the shower.” His soft tone doesn’t match the anger brewing in his eyes.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply automatically, backing away as he advances into my living room. “Is this because I left? I ran off because those men were tryingto kill me, and clearly, they were there for you. Not exactly the afterglow I was hoping for.”
“You left before they ever touched you.” His laugh is a dry, humorless sound. “And they paid for touching you, by the way. With. Their. Lives.”
A chill runs down my spine. I knew he killed for me that night, and now the pin is loosening, which makes it impossible to pretend it was a nightmare.
“Where’s my lighter?” he asks again, his tone chillingly low.
“Look, I don’t have your lighter. Maybe you dropped it somewhere.” Why the fuck am I lying when he’s here? I should just go get it. But everything in me balks at that. It’smylighter now. “And even if I did take it, breaking into my apartment is a bit excessive, don’t you think?”
Matteo’s smile is slow and predatory. “Breaking in? You opened the door for me.” He glances around my apartment, taking in the carefully arranged furniture, the half-empty wineglass from last night. “Nice place. Much nicer than where I expected to find you.”
“Thanks for the housing review. Feel free to leave now.” I gesture toward the door with my umbrella.
The corners of his lips curl upward. “Glad you warned me you were armed,” he smirks. “That thing should require a license.”
I huff in annoyance. “Get out.”
“No.”
I can’t explain my thought process when I swing the umbrella, fully intending to hit him with it. “Get. Out,” I hiss.
With a rumble of laughter, he snatches it from me and cracks it over his thigh. The wood cracks, splinters scatter across the floor. “Now I feel so much safer,” he deadpans.
“What the hell, Matteo?” I shriek. For some reason, him ruining the umbrella that means nothing to me, makes fear giveway to anger. “You owe me a new umbrella. And a door. And a chain.”
Ignoring my very choice words and the creative insults, he plucks a framed photo of me in front of the Eiffel Tower from my bookshelf. After studying it, he puts it back and runs a couple of fingers across my framed diploma from when I graduated two years ago.
“So you’re a Georgetown graduate,” he muses, somehow sounding as though he already knew that.
Then, without warning, he upends my coffee table. My laptop and several other items crash to the floor. I jump back, a startled cry escaping me.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I shout as he moves to the couch next, flipping cushions onto the floor.
“Looking for what’s mine.” His voice remains eerily calm, at odds with the violence of his actions. He moves with methodical precision, like this is just another day for him. Maybe it is.
“Stop destroying my apartment!” I scream.
“Tell me where it is, and I will.” He yanks open a drawer in my side table, dumping its contents onto the growing pile of my belongings on the floor.
“I told you, I don’t have it.” The lie comes easier this time, fueled by indignation. “Come on. It’s just a lighter. You could buy another one.”
