I add more terms—Luca Santoro arrest, Luca Santoro business, Luca Santoro LLC.
Still nothing.
I try variations of his name—Luke Santoro, Lucas Santoro, L Santoro.
Not a single result. Not one social media profile. No LinkedIn. No Facebook. No Instagram. No digital footprint whatsoever.
These days, everyone has a digital footprint. My grandmother has a Facebook page. The guy who delivers my takeout has an Instagram.
Unless you're deliberately staying invisible.
I close the laptop and press my palms against my eyes. I'm making connections that aren't there. Someone broke into my apartment and I'm scared, so I'm looking for explanations in the wrong places.
But what if my instincts have been trying to warn me and I've been too attracted to him to listen?
I walk back to the living room and stand in front of the coffee table. I stare at where the book was this morning, at the empty space where my bookmark should be. It's proof that someone was here.
I could run. I could pack a bag, go to my parents' place in Bensonhurst, text him that I'm sick and cancel dinner.
But I don't want to run. I want answers. And more than that, if I'm being honest with myself, I want to see Luca again.
If he's innocent—if someone else has been in my apartment—then I'm being paranoid and I'll apologize and we'll have dinner and everything will be fine. And if he's not? Then I want to see his face when I ask him about it, want to watch his reaction when I tell him someone's been in my apartment, want to know the truth.
I go to the kitchen drawer where I keep the takeout menus and batteries and junk. Buried at the back is the small canister of pepper spray my dad insisted I carry. I've never used it, nevereven taken it out of the drawer. I take it out now and put it in my purse.
Then I go to the bedroom and stare at my closet. The black dress is hanging in the back, waiting. The heels are on the floor. I'm not wearing those.
I pull on dark jeans that fit well and a soft burgundy sweater—fitted, with a scoop neck that shows just enough skin to be flattering. Comfortable, easy to move in, clothes I can run in if I need to. But pretty enough for a date. I add small gold hoops, the ones my grandmother gave me, and swipe on mascara and lip gloss in the bathroom mirror.
It's a small act of defiance, choosing my own outfit instead of following his orders, but it feels important. He doesn't get to control everything, even if part of me wants to let him.
Then I sit on the couch and wait and think again about everything I've been ignoring. How he appeared out of nowhere during the mugging, how he knew my coffee order without asking, how he seemed too perfect, too interested, too good to be true. The feeling of being watched that started months ago. The things moved in my apartment—the book, the chair out of place, and now today's discoveries. The curtain. The bookmark. The closet door.
It could all be coincidence. Or none of it is, and Luca's been in my life a lot longer than a few days.
My phone is face-down on the coffee table. My hands won't stop shaking.
I'm terrified, yes. But I'm also angry—angry at him for lying, if he did, angry at myself for being so desperate for connection that I ignored every warning sign.
The knock makes me jump. My heartbeat pounds in my throat. I take the pepper spray from my purse.
"Francesca?" His voice through the door sounds calm, warm, like he's just a guy picking up his date for dinner. Like he hasn’tbeen in my apartment, moving my things, taking my bookmark, leaving traces of cologne in my living room.
I cross to the door and wrap my fingers around the knob. The metal is cold against my palm.
This is it. Either I'm about to confront a stalker, or I'm about to make a fool of myself with the first man I've been interested in in a long time.
Knowing all of that, I open the door.
7
LUCA
She knows.
I can tell before she even opens the door. I can tell by the way she takes too long to answer my knock. By the way I can hear her breathing on the other side, shallow and quick. By the way the deadbolt slides back slowly, like she's deciding whether to make this easy or hard.
Smart. Too late, but smart.
