Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 62497 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62497 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
I grip on for dear life, never having been on a bike before.
Will I die?
Is he going to kill me?
Maybe my chances of walking would have been better.
Doubt he would have let me walk, even if I had wanted to.
I take in the buildings whooshing by as we speed down the streets to my apartment, and when we arrive back at my place, I don’t wait for him to tell me to get off. I scramble off without his help and promptly fall onto my hands and knees, managing to just miss hitting my head. Through my hair, which covers most of my face, I see his boots come into my field of view and stop in front of me.
“While you’re down there…” I gasp and look up at him. “Though the helmet may be an issue. But if you turn around and hike up that dress…”
I stand, noting that my hands sting from the concrete when they stopped me from faceplanting, and my knees are bleeding a little.
Oh fuck…
When I open my eyes, I see a masculine face with a strong jawline and piercing eyes. There are stars behind Kenzo, and I wonder if I’m dreaming.
I’m not.
“Fuck! You and blood are a problem. We’ve already established your own blood makes you faint!” He shakes his head. I go to sit up, and he helps me. I see that he’s torn some of his shirt off and wrapped it around each of my knees. Thank God.
“We could never work, so please divorce me,” I beg him.
He helps me stand and walks with me, arm around my waist for support, up the stairs until we reach the second floor. He stops at the neighbor’s door and looks inside. “Why is the door open?” he asks.
“Your brother kicked it in,” I tell him. His head whips to me before he lets me go and goes inside.
“What are you doing?”
He looks around for a few minutes, then returns, holding a stack of pictures. He offers them to me, and I stare at him, confused.
“What?”
“You may want to see them.”
I take the pictures and try to figure out what they show, but the lights are off, so it’s hard for me to see properly. He turns the flashlight on his phone, and when he does, I can’t help the small scream that leaves my lips as I finally make out the images. I drop the stack of pictures, and they scatter across the floor. I rush to my apartment, unlock the door, then run in and open every cupboard.
“You won’t find it,” Kenzo says, coming up behind me.
I pause and look at him over my shoulder. “Why not?”
“When I took your keys, and before I returned them, I also let myself in to remove his cameras.” My hands, which are trembling, drop limply to my sides. I thought it was weird that day he gave me my keys back, and now I get why.
How could I not know?
Why did my neighbor do that?
I let that man in once to use the bathroom, and he, what? Managed to put two cameras in my house that easily?
Oh my God, I feel physically sick.
The invasion of my privacy causes an overwhelming feeling of disgust.
There are pictures of me. Some are me walking around my apartment in nothing but underwear. Some are of me naked. And he had them. I feel violated, like somehow all my rights were stripped without my consent.
“I’m calling the cops,” I say, sounding stronger than I feel.
“I’d suggest you don’t do that,” Kenzo replies, washing his knife in my sink before plucking one of my apples out of the bowl on the counter and pulling out his knife. He slices the apple and pops a piece in his mouth.
“What? You saw what he did…” I seethe, pointing in the direction of the other apartment…and those photographs.
“I still say you shouldn’t do that.” I pull out my phone, and he demands, “Put it down.”
“Why? You expect me to just let it go?” I question angrily.
“No, because he will never be an issue again.”
“Of course, he will be. Now, can I call?”
“No.” He cuts another piece of apple, places it into his mouth, and locks eyes with me. “I killed him, and that apartment is now mine.” My phone drops to the floor and skitters across the tiles as his words sink in.
He says it so casually, like it was nothing at all.
“I killed him.”
Killed him?
For real?
Maybe not?
And he owns it?
“Yes, for real.” Shit. I said that out loud. “You say a lot of things out loud,” he tells me. “Do not call the police,” he orders, walking back to the front door and kicking it closed. “Now, care to tell me why you’re hanging out with the mafia?”
“The w-what?” I stutter out.
“Marco,” he says. “Did you not know?”