“Surveillance supplies,” he says. “Some added security for the doors and windows.”
“Oh,” I say and let out my breath slowly.
He straightens from his crouch and comes to sit next to me.
“I’m not going to lie to you and pretend there aren’t any weapons in that bag or that I’m not carrying any,” he says. “But it’s defense. That’s all.”
My stomach twistsanyway.
“And you’re just… going to set up surveillance in my apartment,” I say, trying to keep the edge out of my voice and failing.
He nods once. “Only the perimeter,” he says. “Entry points. Door. Windows. Look at me,” he says when my eyes drop. I reluctantly lift them back to his. “I’m not putting cameras in your bedroom or bathroom. Nothing facing inward, Elsa. I’m not here to spy on you.”
His eyes hold mine as I process his words.
I nod once, stiffly.
“Okay?” he asks, like he needs to hear it.
“Okay,” I repeat, and my voice is surprisingly steady.
“Good,” he murmurs, and the tension in his shoulders eases by a fraction. “And if there’s anything you want me to explain, you ask.”
I let out a slow breath. “You’re… very confident about all this.”
“I told you they’ll do whatever it takes,” he says, and my breath catches at the determined look that jumps into his eyes. “But so will I. And I’m going to win because it matters more to me.Youmatter more to me.”
Chapter Twenty Five
Antonio
I zip the duffel closed and leave the laptop where it is for now.
Surveillance can wait until she’s asleep.
I can be quiet when I need to be. But right now, Elsa doesn’t need me prowling around her apartment. She needs something that feels normal. Something that reminds her she’s still in her own home and not in the middle of a chess match she never agreed to play.
She’s still sitting on the couch, perched like she might bolt if I blink too hard. One leg tucked under her, arms tight, eyes too alert for a woman who should be relaxing after a long day.
I keep my voice light on purpose.
“Have you eaten?”
Her eyes flick to me like she didn’t expect the question. Like she expected me to keep talking about doors and windows and threats.
“No,” she says, and there’s a faint grimace that makes her look younger. “Not really. I was just going to… pull out some leftovers.”
“That doesn’t sound like a plan,” I say.
“It was a plan,” she argues automatically, then exhales. “An easy one. I guess it won’t be enough now, though.”
She slides off the couch and walks to the kitchen, and my gaze wants to follow her legs because my eyes have a mind of their own, but I drag them away and plant them somewhere neutral.
She opens the fridge.
I don’t have to get close to see it. The door swings wide, and the light spills out, and even from where I’m standing, I can tell there’s not much in there that qualifies as dinner. A couple of containers shoved to one side. Drinks. Condiments. The kind of “I’m home occasionally” fridge, not the kind of “I cook” fridge.
She stares for a beat too long, like the fridge might produce a solution.
