She doesn't answer. She should hate me. But she doesn't. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
I step back and give her space to breathe. She sags against the wall. The fight hasn't left her entirely, but she's starting to understand the reality of her situation.
She has no good options. Just me.
"I can't—" She stops. She starts again. Her voice is smaller now. "What do you want from me?"
"Everything." I don't soften it. I don't make it easier to swallow. "Your body. Your mind. Your time. Your attention. Your submission. I want you in my home, in my bed, in my life. I want to own every part of you until you can't remember what it was like before me."
"That's—"
"What's going to happen." I cut her off. "Tonight, you come with me. To my home. Where you belong."
"I don't belong to you."
"You will." I watch the moment she realizes I mean every word. "You'll come to understand it. You'll learn to accept it. Eventually, you'll even crave it. Because I'm going to give you everything you need, Francesca. Everything you've been missing. Everything you've been too afraid to ask for."
She pushes off the wall and wraps her arms around herself. "You're out of your mind."
"We've established that." I tilt my head. "Are you done fighting the inevitable?"
"What are you?" she whispers.
"What I am," I say quietly, "is the man who's been watching you for months. The man who knows how you take your coffee and that you cry during Grey's Anatomy. The man who's killed people and won't hesitate to kill anyone who touches what's mine."
She goes very still. "You kill people."
"I do."
No apology. No softening. Just the truth.
"How many?" she asks.
"Too many." I watch her processing it. "I don’t count… not because I'm a monster who forgets, but because I'm a monster who remembers."
She makes a sound—something between a laugh and a sob. "Jesus Christ."
"He's not listening,piccola. He stopped listening to men like me a long time ago."
She opens her eyes and looks at me like she's seeing me for the first time. She should see what I am. She should understand what she's dealing with.
"You're a hitman."
"Enforcer. But yes, essentially. I solve problems. Permanently."
Her breathing is unsteady now. I want to pull her against me, warm her, soothe her. But not yet. She needs to understand first. She needs to accept what I am before I can give her what she needs.
"And you think I'm just going to... what? Come with you? Live with a murderer?"
"Yes."
"Why would I do that?"
I step closer again. I'm close enough to feel her heat. Close enough to see fear and fury war in her eyes.
"Because you don't have another choice. Because I've made sure of it." I don't blink. I don't look away. "Your apartment is compromised. Your life is compromised. I know where you are every second of every day. I know your schedule, your habits, your weaknesses. Running won't work—I'll find you. Fighting won't work—I'm stronger, faster, more ruthless than you can imagine. Calling the police won't work—I have no record, and you have no proof of anything illegal."
I pause. I let it sink in.
