Page 72 of Fallen Rook

Still no messages from Enzo.

Each time I watched the blank screen, a nauseating sense of betrayal raced through me.

I knew I was spiraling when my sense of time, space, and being blurred around the edges of my existence, and I became a very small dot in a very vast and empty room.

A sudden ping jolted me upright, like a defibrillator pulse straight to my chest.

A new notification from the building security app flashed on my phone.

New visitor. 23:31. Signed under: Vincenzo Ferrante.

He was here.

Fuck. Fuck.

Stumbling to the bathroom in a frenzy, I combed my hair, washed my face, and brushed my teeth to get rid of the alcohol stench.

I stared at the mirror.

I still looked like shit.

The doorbell rang. I trekked toward the door, placing my hand on the knob. Drawing a breath, I reminded myself that it was just a twenty-six-year-old punk I was seeing, not the president.

Never mind that the kid was like herpes. He always showed up at the worst possible time.

I knew I shouldn’t open the door. I was not in control of my emotions, thoughts, or actions.

I opened it anyway, to find him freshly showered, that damn tantalizing tendril of hair, all wet and glossy, falling over his forehead.

Sockless, unlaced sneakers. Low-hanging gray sweatpants with his dick’s print showing through the fabric. A cross pendant dangling from his throat. A muscle shirt that showed off his delectable torso and the tattoos across his freshly washed skin. Hair sticking out in all directions. Flushed cheeks. A sheen of wetness glazing his face and lips.

Washed your Russian slut away so you could come get your seconds with me, have you? I wanted to bite out.

But I didn’t.

Because as much as I fucking hated him right now, I was terrified he’d leave.

“Hey, man.” He threw me a lopsided grin, his lone, fascinating dimple popping out.

“You’re late,” I strangled out, clutching the doorknob tighter.

Why was I trembling? Why couldn’t I shake the anger off? Where was the man I’d been a few weeks ago, who didn’t have good days or bad days, because every day felt exactly the same? The man whose emotions were always flatlined.

“Yeah.” He shouldered past me, bulldozing into my domain, unaware of the danger looming on the other side of the threshold. “Katya showed up early. Wanted New York pizza. I tried to text, but it wasn’t safe, you know? She was watching.”

I was back to being the shameful secret.

The unspoken mistake. The thing to hide from view.

Only this time I wasn’t unruffled by it.

“Did you fuck her?” My once-icy control was now a puddle of lukewarm water on the floor.

“Dude, what?” Enzo snorted, distracted. He dumped his keys and phone on my credenza, taking in my chillingly minimalistic apartment.

“Never mind; I don’t want to know.”

I balled my fists at my sides, willing my pulse to slow down. He’d robbed my ability to breathe, looking all dumb and adorable while doing so, clueless to the power he had over me.