"Then why are you acting like this is a problem?"
"Because he's apsycho stalker?"
Amanda ignores me. She's already typing on her own phone, fingers flying across the screen. "Dmitri Baganov... Baganov... oh. Oh,wow."
She turns the screen toward me.
It's a photo from some society event. Dmitri in a black suit. He's not smiling. He looks like he's contemplating the murder of whoever's behind the camera.
He looks devastating.
"Tell me again how this is a problem," Amanda says.
"That photo doesn't show his personality."
"His personality where he says he'll bewatching you? That personality?"
"Yes!"
"Babe." She finds another photo. This one's more candid. Dmitri stepping out of a black car, sunglasses on, jaw sharp enough to cut glass. "I think you've lost your fucking memory. Look at him.Look."
I look.
I've been trying not to. Trying to focus on the red flags, the warning signs, the fact that he's clearly been surveilling me for weeks. But looking at him now, at the broad shoulders and the dangerous grace and the way he carries himself like he owns every room he walks into?—
You know exactly how I taste.
My face heats.
"See?" Amanda says triumphantly. "You're blushing again."
"I'm not?—"
"You absolutely are." She swipes to another photo. "And this one. God, thehandson him. Those are 'I'll ruin your life but you'll thank me for it' hands."
"You're being ridiculous."
"I'm being realistic. This man—" she shakes her phone at me "—is literally obsessed with you. He's texting you about yourdinner plans. He's telling you that you'renot allowedto see other people. That's unhinged behavior, yes, but also? Kind of romantic?"
"It's not romantic. It's terrifying."
"Is it, though?" Amanda tilts her head. "Because you haven't blocked his number. You haven't told your brothers. You're sitting here texting him back instead of calling the cops—not that cops would help with mafia stuff, but you know what I mean."
I open my mouth.
Close it.
She has a point. A terrible, infuriating point.
If I really thought Dmitri was a threat, I would have told Pietro immediately. I would have blocked his number, reported his surveillance, demanded protection. That's what a smart person would do.
Instead, I'm hiding in my bedroom, texting him back, and showing the conversation to my best friend like it'sgossip.
What does that say about me?
"I'm not interested in him," I say, but it sounds weak even to my own ears.
Amanda just smiles. "Sure, babe. Whatever you say."
