I roll my lips. “Pretty much.”
Without taking her eyes off me, she leans over and grabs the bottle of tequila we used to make the margaritas. She pours a shot into both of our empty cups and then hands one to me.
We take the shot, cringing at the taste, and then stare at each other in silence.
“I’m just not even sure what to say.”
I groan. “Daya, I don’t know what to do. He didn’t hurt me, but he did. He definitely forced himself on me. But I would’ve let him go farther had he tried. I’m so fucking confused. And I feel dirty and wrong, but when it was happening, it felt…”
I trail off with another groan, and this time I just bang my head against the granite countertop.
“Really good?” she fills in. "Amazing? Out of this world?"
"All of the above," I confess. "I have never come so hard in my entire life.”
“Damn,” she breathes, a note of awe in her voice. “Has he contacted you since then?” she asks gently, running her fingers through my hair in a comforting gesture.
I lift my head, a frown on my face. “Yes. He just… he said he didn’t want me to fall in love with something fake. He pretty much said he’s showing me who he really is, instead of lying to me about it. The fact that he thinks he can make me fall in love with him in the first place goes to show how deranged he is.”
“That’s… oddly nice? But really fucked up. There’s something wrong with him. But we knew that from the chopped-off hands.”
I snort. “Yeah, just a bit.”
“Have you, uh, asked him about that yet?”
I nod. “Yeah, he basically played his usual macho man act and said not to worry about it and that he’d take care of it.” I roll my eyes, but in all honesty, I’m glad for it. If I can count on my shadow for anything, it’s to fuck someone up.
He’s made that more than clear.
I sit up and bring Gigi's journal back towards me. “Anyhoo, let’s just focus on figuring out what happened to my great-grandmother.”
It’s not hard to put Daya back into hacker mode. She slides her laptop towards her and immediately starts tapping away on the keyboard. The quickness of her fingers gives me a run for my money when I’m in a particularly good part in writing my book. She’s been known to have to replace a few keys from how hard she types.
“So, time of death for Gigi was estimated about 5:05 P.M. Your great-grandfather claimed that he had run to the grocery store and when he came home, he found her dead in their bed. I found some witness reports claiming they did see John in Morty’s grocery store around 5:35 P.M. But they didn’t specify if they had seen him walking in or out of the store, or if they just saw him shopping during that time.”
I nod my head, twisting my lips in contemplation. “In her last few journal entries, she was frantic and kept saying that he was coming for her. She never said who he is. But it has to be Ronaldo, right?
“So, maybe he waited until John left and snuck in and killed her while he was gone. He stalked her after all, he’d know exactly when my great-grandfather would’ve left.”
Daya shrugs a shoulder, looking a little unconvinced.
“But don’t the diary entries say that John was getting aggressive, and Gigi said she was going to divorce him, right?” she questions.
I frown. “Well, yeah, but I don’t think he would’ve killed her. He loved her too much.”
“Couldn’t the same be said for her stalker?”
Noting my expression, Daya sighs and rests her hand on mine.
“Addie, I love you and I’m going to say this with all my love. But don’t project. I’m starting to get the feeling that you want Ronaldo to be the killer because in your head, that will criminalize your stalker, too. Please tell me that’s not why you’re seeking justice for Gigi. Because you’re looking for a reason to hate your stalker when in actuality, you don’t.”
I pull my hand from under hers and look away. Uncomfortable feelings invade my body, preventing me from speaking right away.
“I don’t need to look for a reason to hate him,” I grumble.
Daya cocks a brow, unimpressed with my attitude. I sigh, a headache blooming right between my eyes. I rub at the spot, stalling as I try to figure out what I want to say.
Because she’s not entirely wrong.
Maybe I just want to be able to say that all stalkers are crazy, and that it’s not possible to fall in love with one. I want to be able to say it’s never happened before. And I want to say it’s absolutely impossible to find myself in a loving, passionate, and healthy relationship with a person who invaded every aspect of my life unapologetically.
As much as I hate to say it, my shadow might not be wrong either. The man has a magnetism about him that rocks me to my core. He’s shifted my entire life out of balance.
He scares the fuck out of me. But just like watching a horror flick, it thrills me too. He was right when he said that if he had approached me in the bookstore and took me out like a normal man, I would’ve fallen for him. The way he carries himself, the way he speaks, and his passion are irresistible.
And he’s also right that if I had fallen in love with a lie, I would’ve been devastated. I just wish he wasn’t such a bad guy.
But then he’d be a different man—a man you might not be able to love.
Doesn’t matter.
I refuse to love my shadow. And I’m not going to fuck him, either. What happened two nights ago was sexual assault and I’m not going to spin it any other way.
“That’s not why I want justice for her,” I say quietly. My hand drops and I meet Daya’s soft gaze.
Never one to judge me. Even when I probably deserve it.
“I obviously never met Gigi, but Nana loved her to a million pieces. And I don’t think she ever quite got over it. Not only do I want justice for Gigi, but for Nana, too.”
That seems to placate her. “Good. Because I did find a lead on one of Seattle’s most notorious crime families in the 40s.”
I perk up, leaning over to look at the laptop screen. She turns it towards me for a better view.
“Back in the 40s, the Salvatore family ran the streets. Angelo Salvatore was the crime lord.” She points towards a picture of five men.
In the middle is what you would expect from an Italian mafia boss. Deeply tanned skin, large bulbous hooked nose and incredibly handsome, with his wide smile and sparkling brown eyes.
Surrounding him are four men, their ages ranging from what looks to be eighteen to late twenties. Based off the white hair peppered through Angelo's black hair, these must be his sons.
They all look like him and are equally good-looking. Two of them are wearing military fatigues, most likely having been drafted in WWII.
“Those are his four sons,” Daya confirms. “But they’re irrelevant, sexy as they are. Look in the background behind them. Do you see him?”
She points to a grainy, slightly blurred image of a man looking off in the distance behind the Salvatore family. Most of his body is concealed but what can be seen is a handsome face, part of a nice suit, and a top hat.
“This is the only picture I could find but I think there’s a possibility that’s Ronaldo.”