I blink fast, forcing myself to come back to my senses.
My next few notes are grave. Rumor has it, when Rachmaninoff composed this melody, he was inspired by a dream of himself in a coffin at his own funeral. At first, he was terrified, and then he accepted his fate. I wonder if my stalker knows this, if he sees the irony in it.
As soon as the piece is over, I can’t help but seek him out again.
Where are you?
Only the back of his hand—inked and deadly—is still in the room, tapping softly against the edge of the wall, as if to say goodbye.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Each tap echoes deep in my bones.
Then, his hand slides away, disappearing completely.
And he’s gone.
That same night,sleep never comes.
Every time I close my eyes, I see the finger tapping against his lips, and when I open them, my stalker’s gaze flashes across the ceiling of my bedroom. Watching me.
Under the covers, I don’t dare toss or turn, my body rigid and still, like a mouse in a field—afraid to make sudden movements in case a predator is around. If my stalker got into the gallery, where else can he show up? Is he here, pacing around my house? He can’t be. It’s one thing to show up at a public event, quite another to break into this fortress.
This is exactly what a man like him wants—to terrorize me. And right now, I’m letting him win. Frustration weaves into my breaths as I count to three and yank the covers off my body, sitting upright. On a night like this, when insomnia keeps me up, only one thing often helps: chocolate milk, cold and spiced with cinnamon, like my mother used to make it.
I wrap my silk robe around myself, walking out into the hallway barefoot. Right now, it’s mostly empty. With my father still gone, only half the usual guards have remained, most of them posted outside. It has to be the only time I’ve ever wished they were all here.
A light breeze coming from the open balcony drapes my hair down my back, caressing my face and neck. The flapping of curtains makes a steady sound in the otherwise silent corridor. I wrap my arms around myself and go downstairs, each step filling me with more unease.
“Ridiculous,” I mutter under my breath. There’s no reason to be afraid in my own home.
Grabbing milk from the fridge, I pour some into a cup, mixing it with cocoa. If Giuseppina saw me using her kitchen, she would freak out, but I’m not waking her up for something so insignificant.
I search for the cinnamon, and the sound of gruff voices carries over from the backyard. The guards always bicker, but Idon’t remember them ever being so loud. Where the hell is the spice rack? Maybe I should just take my cup back upstairs and leave out the?—
A loud gunshot rings out.
Then another.
And another.
Each time, my body jolts, the glass falling to the floor. It shatters to pieces that fly everywhere.
For a moment, I just stand there, eyes wide, not knowing what’s happening. Until I do.
We’re being attacked.
I blink fast, setting out down the hallway, my body raw with instinct as I keep to the walls, scanning the space for danger I can’t see but feel everywhere.
The safe room. I need to get to the safe room on the other side of the house.
A scream tears out of me as I bump into a hard body with such force, it almost knocks me down. But Cesare catches me just in time.
“Fuck!It’s me. I’ve got you.” He sounds breathless, like he just stopped running himself. He grabs my shoulders and pulls me to the side, away from the windows. I hold on to his arm, heart in my throat.
“Who? Who’s attacking us?” I ask between scattered breaths.
“You’re bleeding,” he rushes to say.
