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Either way, I know what I should do.
Walk away.
But.
Coincidence or intentional?
What intention could she have? I’m no one. Not to her. If I was Enzo or Vinnie or Leo,maybe.But in her eyes, I’m a lowly capo. She called me agoodboy,for fuck’s sake.
One hell of a coincidence, though.
The restaurant is forty minutes from her home, and my hotel is fifteen, give or take.
I check the time on my cell.
I know what Ishoulddo.
Grabbing my mask and a few tools from my duffel, I stalk through the hotel lobby with my head cast downward, letting anticipation trickle up my spine. My little treasure is about to learn that I don’t need to be in a forest to hunt her, and she’s going to wish she had the protection of The Quest and her red fucking hood when I corner her tonight.
* * *
Her security systemswere so easy to disarm that it was laughable. And fucking dangerous. She’s a consigliera for the Chicago outfit, and any high school IT nerd could’ve overrun her setup within five minutes.
Once I work out why she’s spooked away from The Quest, we’ll discuss installing something to keep her safe.
The lock on her front door clicks with purpose, and I lean heavily against the wall in her living space, making myself comfortable.
After dropping her handbag and keys on her entryway table, she flicks on the lights and lets her back fall against the door. Eyes closed, she kicks off her heels, pushing the pad of her toes into the wooden floor before relaxing again.
The living area remains in darkness, and it's nice to watch her. So much so that I consider whether I want to confront her or stay in the shadows and let myself observe her longer.
I want to watch her pour herself a wine and relax in the safety of her home. Does she prefer silence, TV, mindless scrolling, reading, or music? Does she drink white or red, or am I altogether mistaken, and she’s a whiskey or gin girl? Does she stay in the clothes she chooses for power or strip down for comfort as she decompresses from her day? Does she shower first, removing clothing items as she enters her bathroom, letting any creeps hiding in her home watch her?
Unfortunately, Alessia decides for me, turning on the rest of the lights in her house all at once, lighting up the entire space like the Fourth of fucking July.
She screams when she sees me, and I’m psychotic enough to admit that the sound of her distress sends blood straight to my cock.
She’s not even seeingallof me.
I’m masked up and still a stranger.
Her predator from the maze.
Fear contorts her face for the briefest flicker, but she pushes it back, eyes narrowing. “What the fuck are you doing in my home, you fucking psychopath?”
She’s swearing to portray a wall of confidence she in no way feels. The skittish dart of her eyes and the heavy swallows of her throat tell me that.
“You refused my invitation,” I tell her calmly. “I wanted to know why.”
She all but spits when she speaks. “It doesn’t work like that. The Quest is anonymous.”
She gives me a wide berth, moving cautiously against the walls.
“You showed me your face,” I argue.
Her hands find her hips. “You were helping me.”
I stand straight. “Well, what is it? Am I a psychopath or a Good Samaritan?”
