If there's one way to have your night completely ruined in the span of two seconds, it's to discover a bloody foot in the bed you were so looking forward to dropping your exhausted body into after a night out.

To be honest, it's been a long few days. One second, Massimo is at my front door with a dildo. The next, he has a gun. 

I mean, really. My biggest problem should be making my cat happy and finding at least one member of the male species who doesn't make me want to fall asleep during sex. Not this.

After I picked the lock on my cuffs, I sat down and had a real hard think about what the fuck I'm supposed to do. After coming up empty, I dragged some friends out to the club and got drunk enough to forget my problems. 

Sometimes, real life is too difficult to face. When that happens, I give myself a day to run from it. One day, a night out, just several hours of letting go. I came home fully intending to face my problems head on... after a nice night's sleep. 

And at first glance, I thought I must be hallucinating. I hadn't even had time to move from my spot when my front door was jerked open and my neighbor's dark silhouette filled the doorway.

Massimo carefully puts the sheets containing the human body part onto the floor, making sure nothing spills out. He's managed to strip my bed and tie all the bedding into a neat ball. Barring the blood splotches left over on my mattress, you'd never know something so gruesome was just there.

I mean, what the fuck is this? 'The Godfather'?

"Massimo. Answers. Now."

Based on the way he's swooped in and cleaned this mess, I can safely assume he didn't make it. He's not gloating or smug. He actually seems somewhat unsettled, if my read of his emotionally constipated demeanor can be considered at all accurate.

But practically everything else is one big, fat question mark. Starting with why the hell he's even here, when hours ago he wanted to kill me. I barely resist grabbing onto those broad shoulders and shaking—to rattle that empty expression off his face and help the words flow. As it is, he steps back before my finger can jab into his chest again, creating space between us.

Still, he says nothing. Gaze dropping down to his hands, with his body going subtly rigid. It must be thirty seconds that he's perfectly still, not even seeming to breathe, and something tells me to keep my mouth shut. Dress pants and a dark button-up adorn his body, sleeves rolled up and drawing attention to strong, thick forearms.

There's a smear of blood on the side of his palm.

He rotates his hand, large and foreboding in the feeble light cast by my lamp, and I notice a gold signet ring on his pinky with some kind of crest. Then a tremor overtakes him, and he disappears into my bathroom before I can blink.

When I follow him in, he's bent over my sink scrubbing at his hands.

"Hey."

He keeps scrubbing.

"Hello?"

He adds more soap. The blood is long gone.

Out of reflex, I place a hand on his elbow. He jerks to stand so fast that I nearly stumble backwards into my shower curtain. His eyes blaze, a vein pulses in his forehead, and he looks ready to either put as much distance between us as possible, or gun me down where I stand.

Note to self: Massimo hates touch.

"The blood is gone," I tell him, but he doesn't look away or lose any of his frightening intensity. If anything, he seems to become stiffer, muscles coiled and taught. The bathroom suddenly feels much too small, and I can see the toned smoothness of his chest rising and falling. Pronounced. Controlled. "Massimo, it's gone."

The moment breaks, and he looks down at his hand. Then without a word, he breezes past me. I follow him with an irritated groan, tugging my dress down my thighs before I flash my black thong to the criminal in my fucking bedroom.

What I see makes me stop suddenly with an affronted gasp.

Nik, the traitorous fucking devil, is winding blissfully between Massimo's legs, purring so loud I can hear it from all the way across the room. Massimo doesn't move an inch, staring down at my cat. My cat who has never shown this level of affection before.

Even with me. And I'm the one who rescued him from the fucking streets!

The backstabbing bitch.

Massimo shoves my cat away with his foot, his lip curled in barely concealed disgust. "Why does that rat have a sweater on?"

"That's my cat, you ass!" He hadn't even said it as an insult, which is worse. Nik isn't exactly the most pleasant to look at. "He wears sweaters when it gets cold. He has a skin condition."

He sends Nik another disgusted look, but he might as well be handing out catnip for the way Nik looks at him.

Now, this would be a moment where a normal person would perhaps say something. Something resembling an explanation. Or a 'Hey, sorry I tried to kill you two times. I'll try not to make it three.' But Massimo just picks up the sheets, nods once as if to congratulate himself on a job well done, and turns to leave.

"Hold the fuck up," I order, stepping in front of him. He tries to slide past, but he can't get by without bodychecking me, which he is hesitant to do thanks to his apparent aversion to touch. I mirror his movements until we're both dancing back and forth in the doorway. He releases a frustrated breath, tilting his head to glare at me.

"Move, or I will move you."

I bark out a laugh. "Do it. I dare you. You could throw me over your shoulder and do the Macarena and I wouldn't bat an eye. There were just human remains in my fucking bed. I need to know what's going on."

Nothing.

"You can't get rid of me, so you might as well fill me in. Would be great to know if I should be running for my life right now."

One murder-obsessed neighbor is enough. I don't think I could handle another threat on top of that. 

"It's too late."

"Too late for what? It's never too late—what do you mean? Who did this?"

He massages his temples, suddenly becoming exhausted before my eyes. His outfit alone tells me he wasn't sleeping before I screamed. But I can also tell that from the worn strain in his eyes; a thin sliver of white rimming his irises like he's tamping down some kind of frenzied energy. His eyes are sunken and shadowed. He's beyond exhausted.

"I don't know who did this. Or why." The words seem to press invisible weights on his shoulders. "But whoever it is, they'd find you. It's too late to run."

"So you don't know who did this," I test out the words with an icy calm. "But it's the same person who left the present at your front door, right?"

He nods, and fury bubbles up in my chest. "Why did you involve me in this shit? I've done nothing—I don't even know who you are!"

"Move, Vivienne."

I stand my ground. "Why would they go after me? You and I hardly know each other. And thank God for that, by the way. Shit, what am I supposed to do now? Oh my God. What happened to Jack after he woke up to the horse's head in his bed?"

Massimo cuts me an unimpressed look, but I don't stop. Panic is beginning to peek through the fury. "Am I just supposed to sleep in that bed, go about my days, waiting until I'm the dead body? No, you and I are gonna sit down and talk this shit through. I want all the details, everything. Whether you like it or not, I'm involved in this, Massimo."

"Move."

A chill passes through me at the threat burning the edges of his voice. "This is my life. I'm not going to just wait around and—hey!"

The world goes lopsided, and it takes me a second to realize that he's actually thrown me over his shoulder. I notice that his hands stay anchored only where my dress covers my skin. I reflexively grip onto his thick, muscled back as he stomps into the bathroom, depositing me carelessly on the floor like I'm a trash bag he's taken to the dumpster. Then he leaves, slamming the door shut.

The fucking imbecile!

"You can try and avoid me all you want, Massimo!" I call, scrambling to go after him. He's at my front door when I emerge back into the living room, breathless. "I will not leave you alone. I know where you live, bitch!"

His brows shutter, and he stares at me for a few seconds. "You just called me a bitch."

"What, do you prefer princess?" I glare. Has he really had nobody call him names before?

He reaches for the doorknob. 

"I promise you, I'm going to harass you every single day until you're so tired of me you're fantasizing about killing me yourself. Oh wait!" My laugh has a touch of mania to it. "You already fantasize about that!"

He clenches his hand around the door, his body practically vibrating from the effort it must take to not close the distance between us and crush my tiny life in his stone fist.

"My advice to you, Vivienne?" His voice cuts sharply into my skin, so smooth and gentle. Soft. And that's what makes it so deadly. "Stay away from me. Before it's too late for you to run."

Then he's gone, the slam of the door rattling the room.

♛

I wake from a restless night of tossing and turning on my couch to the sound of my cat retching.

Muttering curses at his insatiable desire to swallow things that his body simply cannot digest, I sit up blearily from my makeshift bed. This is just what I get for choosing to adopt the cat nobody else wanted. He's elderly and riddled with enough problems to guarantee me a hefty vet bill every year.

I pick up the little offender, giving him a kiss on his gnarly head. He glares at me, craning his thin neck to try and worm his way out of my arms. Ignoring the telltale itch in my throat—allergies don't stop me from shit—I search the ground for what he was eating.

A small paper with neat, angular writing lies near my front door. Nik gives an affronted shake when I put him down, running off somewhere as I pick it up.

I'll make it easy for you. You have 24 hours to find a new place to live and vacate this one. It's in both our best interests.

If you fail to do this, I'll have you dealt with.

With my jaw on the floor, I flip the paper over.

If you try to talk to anyone about this, I won't wait 24 hours, Vivienne.

"The gall of this motherfucker," I growl, crumpling the paper in my fist. I storm into my bedroom to pull on real clothes, not caring what I grab in my rush.

"The lunacy of this arrogant, delusional, pompous ass of a man!" I mutter as I stalk the short distance down the hallway to his door.

It only takes a couple dozen fist-pounds before he swings it open, gracing me with a face that inspires a swell of irritation deep, deep in my soul. That intense, piercing stare and those high cheekbones are wasted on a man like him.

Without a word, I shove past him. He sees my intent and reflexively steps back, allowing me to slip uninvited into his home.

Ha. Sucker.

Reluctant interest has me quickly observing Massimo's living space. It's depressingly minimalistic and spotlessly clean. There are hardly any bursts of color and absolutely nothing alluding to the fact that an actual human being lives here. No personal belongings. Not even a dish on the counter or an imprint in the couch cushions.

I wave the note in the air. "Is this how you normally are?"

He shuts and locks the door in one smooth, controlled motion, facing me with an impenetrable set to his shoulders. "And how is that?"

"Throwing around threats at anyone who doesn't immediately do as you say. Tell me, does it normally work?"

His eyes roam calculatedly down my figure and I refuse to react. He takes his time with that deadened languid gaze, making it clear to me that he has the upper hand in this conversation. The control. 

His brows lower as all the lines of his body go taut. And that's when I realize that my top is see-through. It's an old, white sleep shirt I've had for eons, and I can practically feel my nipples waving hello under his heavy, rapt stare.

I watch as his tongue slowly traces the seam of his lips. Raising my brows, not backing down, and—okay—now he looks almost angry. 

Lord help me.

"What makes you think I throw around threats? Have I not made it clear that I have no qualms about hurting you?"

 I shrug. "I don't believe you. So you talk a big game. Whatever. I'm still here, aren't I? That first time in the alleyway, I ended up inverting your nuts and getting away. The second time, you got all weird out of nowhere and stormed out." I puff out my lips in mock consideration. "Not a super impressive track record."

When, oh when, will I learn to shut my mouth?

He steps closer, his presence infringing on my ability to breathe properly. Formidable danger is idle in the controlled pull of his muscles.

"This morning, it took me three minutes to sufficiently weigh the pros and cons of killing you. Fifteen minutes to devise the story I'd sell to your friends and family. One minute to figure out where and how to dispose of your body." He regards me impassively, blinking slowly. "That's nineteen minutes, Vivienne. Nineteen minutes and you're dead." He drifts closer, his gently uttered words punctuating each step. "With everything tied up in a nice little bow. You're lucky I gave you a choice in the matter at all. What you decide matters little to me."

"So you can do basic math," I mumble, "fucking congratulations." But I'm nearly breathless in slow, crawling horror that crystallizes in a chill at the base of my spine as he stops an arm's length from me. 

"I see you didn't tell your friends about me," he notes in soft baritone. "Smart girl. But if you truly had any brains behind that face of yours, you'd see that your best option is leaving."

"I thought you said you didn't care what I decide," I cross my arms, and his eyes jump down to my chest before resting back on my face with a renewed storm brewing behind that deceiving calm. "Yesterday, you told me if I tried to run, they'd find me. What's the point then?"

He exhales in what would probably be a scoff if he cared enough to exert the emotional effort. "There might not be one. Again, that doesn't matter to me. I'm not telling you to run from them. I'm giving you a chance to run from me."

"Or here's a thought!" I throw up my hands, exasperation sharpening my movements. "Maybe stop fucking trying to kill me!"

He doesn't say a thing, and I roll my eyes. Genuine anger fills me up and heats my veins until I feel like there's not enough space in my body for all the red hot, negative emotions he makes me feel. My chest heaves and my fingertips tingle.  I damn well may have to kill him myself at this point.

"So, either way I'm dead. You think that giving me a choice is all that matters? That you can be okay with what you do as long as you satisfy some arbitrary moral obligation? You haven't given me a choice when both options end in death."

"Again, you incorrectly assume I care what happens to you. And that I care about being okay with the things I do." His finger begins to twitch, tapping slowly on his clasped fist like a metronome. "I don't. One or the other will happen. I only thought I'd grant you the illusion of control. It tends to appease people."

I back up a few steps, losing some of my bravado. The full weight of who this man is and just how depraved his mind is smashes into me full force. There's simply no reasoning with someone like him. No winning.

And there's a dark promise in his eyes that makes me certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he's telling me the cold truth. That he'd really kill me and not care for a second.

"You act soulless," I whisper, and his eyes darken. "It's fascinating. Who made you this way? Was it your mother, your father?"

He doesn't move a muscle, but I sense a barely noticeable tautness to him at the mention of his parents. "It's always at least one of them, isn't it? But maybe it was someone else. Whatever it was, whatever the reason, I think you're full of bullshit."

The only indication of his surprise is a blink. Nothing else moves on his smooth face.

"Bull-fucking-shit," I emphasize, closing the distance between us. Closer and closer until we're almost touching. I can tell he wants to move back, that it's going against every single one of his instincts to remain in place. 

My chest comes a hair's breadth from touching his. I'm so close I can see the dark and golden flecks in his eyes and the tired lines on his face.

"You may be able to kill me but it will wear on you eventually, Massimo." By the same token that he's so cruel and heartless, there's something that made him that way in the first place. I need to find that thing and poke at it. "You're not completely inhuman. I refuse to believe it. So know this. If you have the tiniest shred of humanity, if there's even one hundredth of your soul remaining, I will fucking find it." I smile, making sure he can see just how much I mean it. "Kill me and you'd think about me eventually, even years later. You'd remember that pretty, stubborn woman you killed in that small, forgettable town in New York."

A dark thrill of satisfaction fills my chest as I notice his breathing pick up, his tongue wet his lips. He looks simultaneously like a caged beast and a big cat crouched to kill its prey.

"I won't let you drive me out of my home, or harm any of my friends," I tilt my chin until his eyes are pouring into mine, his breaths caressing my lips. He looks like he'll throttle me for daring to breathe his air. "So that's what I choose. I'm staying."

"You'd stay," he breathes, voice low, and I almost shudder at the feeling of the words on my lips, "out of stubborn determination, even when it guarantees your death. At least the other option was giving you a chance to run."

I keep myself perfectly still, letting him see my resolve. There's a fire beginning to burn in his eyes, one I can only see because I'm this close, and I know that soon it's going to incinerate me.

"And you'd willingly lock yourself in the home of the man who has promised to give it to you. Vivienne Lee, you're unlike any other person I've met." The tone of his voice promises me that's not a compliment. "I'll make sure your family doesn't know how stupid you were in your last moments. Something to comfort you, maybe." The mocking look in his eyes says 'how's that for an arbitrary moral obligation?'

Finally, he steps back from me, both of us seeming to draw in our first breath in a while. I don't know how long we stand there, silently challenging the other to look away first, before he breaks with a slight snarl on his lips and a threatening hood to his eyes.

"Get out of my home."

I don't let him see my fear, my uncertainty, my utter helplessness. Because I'm the girl who will choose to stay with her would-be killer, and worse, I'd do so without any semblance of a plan. I'm the girl who would do this only because it's fucking unfair that he should be the one who gets to take everything I've ever built for myself away from me.

I keep my strides confident and my head high all the way to my apartment, even after I close and lock the door and my mind starts racing, trying to figure out what the fuck I'm supposed to do now. 

Don't play by his rules. Find where he's human. 

Does a man like that have any cracks in his armor? Any remnants of his humanity? Am I too optimistic in believing that even the darkest men, the most damned, can be brought back?

I know one thing for sure: if I've just sealed my own fate, I'd better make sure he regrets it.

Better the devil you know than the devil you don't.