Page 2 of Dangerous Games

The man’s eyes move down to what he’s holding, his mouth parting in shock as if he’d forgotten he was holding someone’s fucking cut-off hand before his attention moves back to me.

Did he kill someone?

Oh god, is he going to kill me?

The silence is deafening. I don’t move, unsure of what to do next that won’t end with my hand joining that one. So there we both stand, mere feet apart, both of us blinking at each other. The silence continues to drag on with the exception of the blood that’s pooling on the floor near his polished black dress shoe that doesn’t have a smudge on it.

I clear my throat, the awkward and tense silence making me uncomfortable as I shift my weight to my other foot. “Are there any slices left?”

I’m going to do what I do best and act like the insane scene that’s playing out in front of me isn’t happening.

His brow lowers in confusion, his attention not wavering from my face. “Slices?”

His voice is rough and commanding as it slithers down my spine, leaving a chill in its wake.

Oh, I like that.

“Slices of pizza.” I nod toward the warmer on the counter that’s empty with the heat lamp on.

The man looks over his shoulder at what I’m talking about before slowly turning back to me. “No. We closed early. Didn’t you read the sign?”

Now my brows raise at his tone because, I’m sorry, but out of the two of us, which one seems to be in a place where it’s okay to throw some attitude around? Because I know it’s not him.

To prove my point, I slowly turn around and make a show of looking at the glass door, seeing nothing on it, and slowly turning back around. “No.”

The man glares at me before groaning, “Fucking Enzo. Can’t remember to do a goddamn thing I tell him.”

I look at him expectantly. “So, no?”

“No,” he clips, his posture growing more tense.

Looks like it’s time for me to go.

Before he can say another word to me or decide he needs to kill me because I’m a witness to… whatever that was, I spin on my heel and walk out the door. I held my breath the entire time. Part of me was waiting for him to snatch me back by the hood of my jacket and lock me in a basement somewhere from seeing what I saw.

Which could very well be nothing, right?

The hand probably wasn’t even real.

That’s what I keep telling myself as I walk around the block and hit the alley in the back where the entrance to my apartment is. The smell of lingering pizza is stuck in my nose; I can practically taste it. I’m pissed as hell. I need to find a new place to get pizza because how do I show my face in there after that? That would be diabolical.

The dim, flickering light in the alley helps guide me toward the metal staircase that’s seen better days. I treat it like any girl would a car; when it creaks as I walk up or down it, I ignore the signs that it’s about to give out on me at any moment. If you don’t acknowledge the problem, is it actually even there?

Just as a step creaks under my weight, the back door to the pizzeria flies open, slamming against the brick building with a crack, making me jump. I’m frozen in place as I watch the hot man in the suit prowl into the alley and grab a metal bucket near the dumpster.

What is he doing?

I stand there and watch as he paces with his phone to his ear and the bucket in the other. Whoever he called must not have answered because he stops his pacing to aggressively tuck his phone into the interior pocket of his suit jacket.

What am I doing standing here watching all of this play out?

Deciding it’s best not to have another moment with him, I start climbing the rest of the stairs to my place. What I wasn’t thinking about was the noise giving me away because as soon as I took another step, he whipped around, looking right at me.

Fuck.

“You,” he growls as he prowls toward me.

Great.