Page 29 of The Voicemail
“I will.”
I stop beside the car instead of getting in. “Find the building contact. Maintenance, super, cousin, whoever had access. I want him found before sunrise.”
Luca nods. “Done.”
“Trace every flower delivery. Shops, drivers, dispatchers, cash payments, online accounts, burner numbers, street cameras near drop-off points. I want a line from Tomaso to every single thing she’s received.”
He studies me for a second. “This is getting personal for you,” he says carefully.
I don’t answer, because he’s right. Not that I’ll tell him that.
He steps closer and lowers his voice. “I think you need distance from her.”
“I need you to find Tomaso.”
“You know I’m going to, but, Alessandro, you need to be careful. Tomaso isn’t the only one who’s developed an unfortunate fascination with this girl.”
His use of my given name surprises me. He usually only uses it to address me in formal meetings. It means he wants me to hear him. I’m determined not to give in. That would be an admission that he’s right.
“Find him,” I say instead.
He holds my stare long enough to make his point, then nods. “I’ll call when we have movement.”
The apartment is quiet when I return. Adriana has gone to her room, and the men at the elevators know better than to speak unless spoken to.
I expect Elena to be behind the locked guestroom door, but I find her asleep on the couch in the living room instead, curled under a blanket with one hand tucked under her cheek. The television is on mute. A glass of water sits untouched on the table. Her phone rests face-down beside it.
For a moment, I stand there and look at her.
She seems younger asleep. Not young. Not fragile. I don’t like thinking of her that way. But without anger bracing her face and fear tightening her shoulders, I can see the woman from the staff photo again. The woman she was before Tomaso Greco decided she belonged to him.
My hands curl once at my sides.
I pick up the remote and turn off the television. The room goes darker. Elena stirs but doesn’t wake.
I should leave. That would be the smart thing. She trusted the living room enough to fall asleep here. If she wakes and finds me standing over her, I’ll destroy some small piece of that trust before it has time to become useful.
I still don’t leave. Instead, I sit in the chair across from the couch. Not close enough to touch her. Not close enough that she’ll wake and think I’m hovering. Far enough that, if she opens her eyes, she’ll have space to decide what she wants to do.
I tell myself I’m here because Tomaso has people looking for her. That’s true. I tell myself I’m here because she’s safer with me awake. That’s also true. It’s just not the whole truth.
The whole truth is that I can still feel the almost-kiss in her apartment. Her mouth close to mine. Her breath catching. Her body leaning in before sense returned to one of us. I want to know what she tastes like.
I want her in my bed, but not like this. Not because she’s scared. Not because she’s cornered. Not because I’m the only solid thing in the middle of a life someone else tore open. I want her when she’s clear-eyed and furious and choosing it. Choosing me.
Her blanket has slipped down to her waist. One bare shoulder peeks out from the loose neck of her sweater, and the sight of it feels worse than nudity would. It’s careless. Unaware. Trusting in a way she’d hate if I said it out loud.
I stand, cross the room, and pull the blanket gently over her. She makes a small sound and turns her face into the cushion. I stop breathing until she settles. Then I step back.
No touching. Not while she’s asleep. Not while she’s frightened. Not while she’s under my roof because danger drove her here.
I stay in the chair until dawn grays the windows, listening to her breathe, planning every way Tomaso Greco is going to regret this.
9
ELENA
The first few days in Alex’s apartment feel like I’m holding my breath. Like I’m waiting, but I’m not sure for what, exactly. Another text. Another bouquet. Another man outside a door trying to force his way into a place I thought was mine.
