But she saved me.
The studio is small and tidy. A French press on the kitchen counter. A jacket hanging over the back of a chair. Bills on the dining table, all marked paid and filed neatly. She's responsible. Careful. Takes care of what's hers.
I move through her space slowly, touching everything. The back of her chair. The handle of her coffee press. The spine of a medical journal on her nightstand. I pick up the pillow on the right side of her bed and press it to my face, breathing deep. Her scent fills my lungs, and my cock hardens instantly. I want to take this pillow home with me. Want to bury my face in it while I stroke myself and imagine it's her hair, her skin, her body under mine.
But I don't. I put it back exactly where I found it, smoothing the case so she'll never know I touched it. Some boundaries still exist. For now.
The bathroom is small. Her shampoo and conditioner sit on the edge of the tub, bottles half-empty. I unscrew the cap on the shampoo and inhale. Lavender. I screw the cap back on and check the medicine cabinet. Birth control pills, half a pack gone. Ibuprofen. Allergy medication.
Now I know she's on birth control, and that information goes straight to the dark part of my brain that's been imagining her under me. She's protected. Smart. Responsible.
When I fuck her, I won't have to use a condom. The thought should disturb me. It doesn't. I'm back on the street within the hour.
After that, the break-ins become routine. Once a week, sometimes twice, always when she's at work. I touch her things. Sit in her chair. Open her cabinets and see what tea she drinks,what food she keeps, what brand of coffee she buys. There's a shoebox in her closet filled with birthday cards and letters, most of them from her mother. I don't read them, but I note their existence.
And I take photographs. I buy a burner phone specifically for this purpose. My Francesca walking to work. Sitting in the park during her lunch break. Smiling at the barista who makes her coffee. Hundreds of images, a digital record of obsession. I'm careful, always shooting from a distance, always making sure she doesn't see me.
But lately, she's starting to feel me. I've noticed the way she checks over her shoulder more frequently when she's walking alone. The way her hand tightens on her bag. The way she looks around before she unlocks her building door, like she's expecting someone to be watching.
She’s right. I am.
The present slides back into focus with my phone vibrating in the cupholder. I silence it without looking. Right now, the only thing that matters is the fourth-floor window across the street, where a light has just flickered on behind thin curtains.
I settle deeper into the driver's seat of the SUV. Hell's Kitchen at dawn is all shadows and delivery trucks, the city slowly waking up around me while I watch her window. The rhythm of this street is as familiar to me now as the weight of my Glock.
The bodega opens. The super from the building next door comes out to smoke, always the same four-minute cigarette. Early commuters walk past, heading to the subway.
But I'm only watching for one.
The light in my Francesca's window stays on. I picture what she's doing in there. Making coffee in that French press. Pulling her hair back into that bun that makes me want to yank it loose and wrap it around my fist. Getting ready for another shift whereshe'll save lives and come home exhausted and sleep alone in that bed.
Not for much longer.
My phone vibrates again. Salvatore. The underboss has been on my ass about the Bratva situation, like I haven't already killed a couple of their soldiers in the past month. I send the call to voicemail and return my attention to the window.
The building's front door opens and she emerges. My pulse kicks up, blood heading south. She's wearing jeans and a jacket, hair pulled back. A travel mug, a bag over one shoulder, moving with exhaustion.
She worked a double yesterday. I watched her stumble home past midnight, dead on her feet but still checking her mail before climbing the stairs.
My girl works too hard. Doesn't take care of herself the way she should. That's going to change when she's mine. I'll make sure she rests. Make sure she eats. Make sure she never has to worry about anything except pleasing me.
I wait until she's down the block before I pull into traffic. Following her has become precision work. Stay far enough back that she won't notice. Vary my position. Never make eye contact, even though I want to.
She stops at the coffee shop, the one with the chipped green awning. Through the window, I watch her smile at the barista, that warm genuine smile that's never been directed at me.
Yet.
The barista hands over her order and she's moving again, cutting through the park. I can't follow in the vehicle here, but I don't need to. Metropolitan Medical Center, west entrance. Same routine every morning.
Instead, I pull into a parking spot and reach for the burner phone. Close to a thousand photographs now. Months ofsurveillance distilled into digital images. I scroll through them, and my cock is already half-hard just from looking at her face.
In several of them, she's looking almost directly at the camera. Like some part of her knows I'm there but can't quite find me. I've seen the wariness creeping into her movements this past week.
Good. Fear will keep her alert. Keep her careful. Keep her safe until I can do it myself.
My regular phone buzzes. Don Marco.
Social club. Two hours. The Morozov situation.
