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The officer turns partially to the side and speaks into the radio on his shoulder and then back to me. “They’re ready upstairs. Would you mind taking a walk through the apartment and letting us know if anything is missing?”
“Give me a minute.” I return to the car and unlock it. As soon as I open the back door, Carina starts to rise up. “Everything okay?”
“I think I’ve been robbed. But I won’t know until I check things out.” I hold out my hand, and even with the police presence here, I can’t help but look around me for a threat. I focus on Carina as her hand slips into mine, and she allows me to help her out of the SUV. The minute her feet touch the ground, she releases my hand, but I stay at her back as we walk to the apartment entrance.
When we enter, the concierge and the building manager begin apologizing to me, but I cut them off. That won’t make my home safe again. I don’t want to hear how someone fucked up. I just want to find out who entered my apartment and have them in front of me on their fucking knees so I can teach them a lesson.
I continue walking, gaze fixed ahead on the bronze doors of the elevator that will take us to the top of the building where my apartment is located.
“I’ll do this alone,” I say to the police officer, who’s ready to step into the elevator with us when the doors open. I touch the small of Carina’s back, nudging her to step in first.
“I’ll wait down here,” the officer replies. Everyone watches us until the doors close, hiding us from view. Soft music plays, and I glance at Carina, who’s watching me.
“I’m sure this has nothing to do with you,” I say, not wanting her to feel unsafe.
“I won’t ask what enemies you have. I’m sure your list is as long as mine.”
I grin. “Most likely.” I grapple with a sense of unease, though. I’m supposed to be an Untouchable. This isn’t supposed to happen.
We enter my home, and straightaway, the space feels different. The living space has been tossed, cushions and furnishings, and my private things were strewn about haphazardly. Drawers are open, items on the floor. My desk is a mess, all the drawers open, papers scattered like someone was looking for something in particular and in a rush.
Books were torn from the bookshelves behind my desk and thrown to the floor, and the smell of ammonia permeates the air.
“Is that piss I smell?” Carina asks, her nostrils flaring. She steps away from the books.
I can’t wait to find out who did this and end their miserable life.
I leave my office space to find the kitchen hasn’t survived the violation. Jars are smashed on the floor, sauce smeared across the white marble tiles. All the cabinet doors are open, their contents emptied out onto the floor. I kneel to pick up a jar that has survived and place it on the granite countertop.
My window herb garden—the one living thing I’ve allowed myself in these years I’ve been alone—hasn’t escaped destruction. The tender plants I’ve nurtured season after season lie amid shattered terra cotta on the floor. I nudge one with the toe of my boot, breathing through my rage.
“It seems personal,” Carina says.
Absolutely, it was. This wasn’t someone looking for a quick payoff; this was someone bent on making a point. They wanted to let me know they were here, that they went through my belongings, my food. That they marked it.
I leave the kitchen and pass the emptied bookshelves, pausing in the small room I use as an office. The safe hidden behind my bookcase has been discovered and gapes open. Muttering a savage curse, I stride across the floor and peer into its dim interior.
“Shit!”
My laptop, the one I store inside this safe, is gone.
My stomach sours. That computer holds years of plans. I squeeze my eyes shut before I open them again. I can only hope they took the laptop as a crime of opportunity, but my gut says otherwise.
If that information sees the light of day, it could be the ruin of me.
I rise to my feet and continue going through the apartment.
In my bedroom, the heavy velvet bedspread has been slashed. Definitely personal. The walk-in closet doors are open, and none of my custom suits have survived. They’ve all been sliced lengthwise from tip to toe, along with every one of my ties.
Movement behind me has me looking at Carina. Anger burns in her gaze as she quietly tells Baccio to sit, and he makes himself comfortable on my ruined bed. She doesn’t need to tell me she’s as pissed off as I am. It’s as clear as day.
I walk into my large bathroom, and my shoulders slump. Not even this room escaped wreckage. I stare at the several versions of myself in the cracked mirror.
I’m staring at the broken version of my face for far too long.
“We will find out who did this,” Carina says from behind me.
I glance at her in the mirror.
