~~Elena~~
The moment he leaves, I rush toward the door and lock it, sliding the bolt into place before twisting the handle twice just to make sure it is secure. I pull the keys out and clutch them in my hand as I back away from the entrance. Only when I reach the living room do I allow myself to sink onto the couch.
I'm shaking. Not the subtle tremble of nerves. My hands are visibly trembling, my legs feel weak, and my chest rises and falls too quickly no matter how hard I try to slow it down. I press my palms against my thighs, trying to steady myself, but it does nothing. I do not even know how to stop it, so I sit there, forcing myself to breathe, forcing my mind to pull away from what just happened.
The fear refuses to leave.
The memory of a knife pressed against my neck. The memory of a stranger standing inside my home. The realization that he is a murderer who walked in and out without explaining how he even got in.
And the worst part is not that he is dangerous. It is that he is unpredictable. There is something off about him, something unstable beneath that calm exterior, like the screws in his head were never tightened properly.
I shiver when I remember the way he said my name.
There is something about it that unsettles me. The way it rolled off his tongue almost sounded like he had an accent, even though he doesn't.
My eyes drift to the pizza on the table. He had asked for it, taken a single bite, then pushed it away. Why ask for something and not eat it? The small detail bothers me more than it should. My nana used to hate it when I wasted food. She always said leaving food behind was disrespectful. I grew up finishing everything on my plate, and now the sight of that half-eaten slice makes me somewhat pissed.
I press my palms to my face and drag them down slowly, trying to ground myself, when my phone vibrates.
The sound makes me jump.
It takes me a long moment before I can stand. My legs feel unsteady as I walk to the kitchen counter where I left my bag. I pull out my phone and laptop before returning to the couch, sitting down with a heaviness I cannot explain.
Once I unlock my phone, a message pops from an unsaved number.
I already know who it is before I open it.
Send your bank details to me for the payment.
I stare at the screen until it goes dark.
I do not want his money. I do not want anything from him. I do not even want to see his face again because I am afraid that the next time I do, I will not be able to control the panic rising in my chest. I am afraid that I might start having panic attacks every time I hear a knock at my door.
Tomorrow, I'll need to file for a restraining order. I don't know if this might actually end up with me getting killed, but at least they will know who did it .
Instead of replying, I place the phone on the couch beside me and lean back, staring at the ceiling while trying to calm the restless thoughts in my head. For a few minutes I focus on my breathing, hoping the shaking in my hands will stop, but the quiet of the apartment only makes my mind wander back to him.
My gaze drifts back to my phone.
There is one thing I realize that I have not done.
I never looked him up.
The thought comes to me suddenly, and I sit up a little straighter on the couch. It seems strange now that it had not crossed my mind earlier. Most people would search for someone the moment they hear their name, especially someone who behaves the way he does. Perhaps I was too focused on getting him out of my life to even think about it.
Luca Crowe.
The name feels different now that I am seeing it in my mind rather than hearing it spoken out loud.
I reach for my laptop on the table and open it, the familiar glow of the screen lighting up the dim living room. My fingers hesitate above the keyboard for a moment before I type the name into the search bar.
Luca Crowe.
Several results appear almost instantly.
The first thing that catches my attention is not an article about crime or violence the way I half expected. Instead, I see headlines about business, finance, and international investments. My confusion grows as I click on one of the links and begin reading.
According to the information in front of me, Luca Crowe is the only child of Alexander Crowe, a man described as one of the wealthiest businessmen in the world. The articles speak about vast companies, international markets, and billions of dollars tied to the Crowe family name. There are mentions of corporations, real estate empires, and partnerships with powerful organizations across different countries.
I blink at the screen, trying to process what I am reading.
This cannot be the same man who stood in my apartment tonight.
I scroll further down and open another page. There are photographs of his father standing beside politicians, CEOs, and well known figures whose faces I recognize from the news. In one image he is shaking hands with a government official, and in another he is speaking at what looks like a major business conference.
There are only a few brief mentions buried inside opinion pieces where writers claim that the Crowe empire might have connections to organized crime, but even those statements are quickly dismissed as rumors and speculation without evidence.
Allegations.
That is the word that appears more than once.
Nothing confirmed.
Nothing that would explain the man who casually spoke about killing someone while sitting in my office.
I scroll again, hoping to find something that makes more sense, but there is not much information about Luca himself. There are only a few photographs, most of them taken at public events where he is standing beside his father. In those pictures he looks composed and distant, dressed in expensive suits and surrounded by people who look important enough to be used to that kind of company.
It feels strange seeing his face in those photos.
The man in them looks controlled, almost detached, nothing like the unpredictable stranger who had been standing inside my apartment only an hour ago.
I lean back slowly, my eyes still fixed on the screen.
The more I read, the less sense the situation makes.
The man who had a knife against my neck is apparently the son of one of the richest men in the world.