Nat straightened. “Like…you think someone was really following you? Or was it just your anxiety playing tricks?”
Lyla shook her head. “No. Not just my anxiety. This was different. It was like…I don’t know, like he was hiding, waiting for the perfect moment to scare the hell out of me. And then, right as I turned onto 47th, bam—he jumped out of the shadows and slammed his boot into a trash can like he was announcing my death. Flicked a cigarette at my feet and grinned like the devil himself.”
My lips twitched. I liked knowing I’d rattled her and left my mark without laying a finger on her.
Nat’s face paled. “God, Lyla, you’ve gotta report that shit. Was he high? That sounds psycho.”
“I don’t know,” Lyla said softly. “He looked…clean, I guess. Not like some drug addict. Just…intense. Like some kind of hit man. He was calm. Calculated. And definitely enjoying himself.”
“Then what happened?”
“I ran. Like full-onhauled ass—grocery bags and all. And I think I surprised him, because I’m pretty fast.”
“You’re lucky he didn’t grab you…or worse,” Nat said. “That guy could’ve been a serial killer. One of those sickos who stalks women for the thrill of it. You can’t be out there walking everywhere all alone.”
At least her roommate had a little common sense.
Lyla scoffed. “Well, I’m not gonna lie—I was freaked out. But I’m not calling the cops. What would I even say?Some hot guy with a hit-man vibe chased me through Hell’s Kitchen but didn’t lay hands on me?They’d laugh and hang up.”
Nat groaned. “This isn’t funny, Lyla.”
“No, it’sweird,” Lyla said. “He seemed rich. Powerful. I mean, Carmine looked like he was about to shit himself after I went off on the guy. So maybe he’s well-connected. Russian mafia? Oligarch? Whatever.”
“Lyla…” Nat didn’t smile. “You could be closer than you think to the truth. This city’s crawling with mafia and gang types. That guy sounds like the real deal.”
“Okay, calm down with theSopranosmania,” Lyla teased. “He’s young—thirty, maybe. He’s probably just a spoiled, rich asshole with some mafia-daddy complex and a life full of bespoke suits and expensive shoes, too overindulged to actually be dangerous. The man probably exfoliates with gold dust and throws a tantrum if his driver’s late.”
Nat crossed her arms. “Or he’s a stone-cold killer who wears dark suits so the blood doesn’t show.”
“He looked too soft to throw a real punch.” Lyla rolled her eyes. “I bet he thinks those stupid pale aqua eyes of his can get him anything. Too much of a pretty boy to ever get his hands dirty. That guy’s never done a day of hard work in his life.”
I growled under my breath.
She turned her head toward the window.
I ducked behind the frame.
“You okay?” Nat asked.
Lyla hesitated. “Yeah. Just thought I heard something.”
I waited a few seconds and peeked in through the corner, rage and heat twisting low in my gut.
She thought I wassoft.
Thought I didn’t get my hands dirty.
She had no idea what these hands could do to her. How I could bend her, break her, and rebuild her to suit me.
The intercom buzzed, a sharp static pop that echoed off the apartment walls.
Nat glanced up from her phone and bounded toward the front door. “That’s my food!”
She pressed the button and spoke into the receiver. “Yeah?”
“DoorDash for Nat,” came the muffled reply.
She buzzed him in, then turned to Lyla. “Be right back.”
