~~Luca~~
"This is not therapy, and I'm not going to stay here and listen to your crazy confessions about the people you murdered," she snaps.
It's bold. Honestly, for someone who's nearly half my size, she has a mouth that runs on a dangerous kind of autopilot. I almost admire the defiance, even if it's born of pure desperation.
"You don't have to feel guilty about it," I reply smoothly, crossing the room. "I'm the one who did the killings, not you. All you have to do is listen."
I sink into her couch, making myself comfortable. I face her bedroom door, where she's still hovering like she might bolt back inside if I blink.
"You are crazy," I hear her mutter. It's a whisper, barely a breath of air, but it reaches my ears with perfect clarity.
"Now, where were we yesterday?" I trail off, a slow smile stretching across my face. "Ah, right. We were talking about how I ended up in juvenile custody for seven years."
She doesn't move. She stays anchored to that doorframe, her eyes darting toward the exit.
"Why are you standing so far away? Come." I keep my voice polite, almost gentle, but the invitation goes ignored. I sigh. I hate having to repeat myself, so I use the one trick I know never fails. I pull my silver gun from its holster, the metal gleaming under her warm apartment lights. I don't aim it; I just play with the muzzle, letting the weight of it settle in my hand.
"Come," I coerce, my voice dropping an octave.
This time, she moves. She crosses the room with stiff, hesitant steps, stopping only when she's safely behind the couch opposite mine. She uses the furniture like a shield, her knuckles white as she grips the back of it.
"Just leave me out of this. Please," she whispers.
I look at her—really look at her—and feel that familiar, dark spark of satisfaction. I let a small smile play on my lips before I slowly shake my head.
"No," I respond.
I watch her shoulders droop, the last of her fight leaking out of her as she realizes that in this world she built, I'm the only thing that's real.
"Why did you shoot him?" she asks out of nowhere. Her eyes fall on the gun still resting in my hand, and I wait, letting the silence stretch until those beautiful hazel eyes finally find mine.
"Why were you trying to push me away? Why did you go to the cops despite me telling you not to?" I demand. My voice is calm, a stark contrast to the storm I can see brewing behind her gaze. She doesn't look away; she glares, her small frame vibrating with a defiance she hasn't quite learned to lose yet.
"Because you are harassing me!" she snaps, her voice trembling but sharp. "You've turned my life into a prison. You stalk me, you break into my home, and you think that just because you have a tragic past and a gun, you're entitled to my time. You're not a patient, Luca, and this isn't a session—it's a kidnapping. You don't want help; you want to force me to look at the darkness you carry because you're too cowardly to look at it alone!"
"I'm anything but a coward, Elena," I say, my voice dropping into a low, dangerous vibration. I watch her closely, noting the way her eyes are becoming glassy, shimmering with a cocktail of pure rage and the tears she's too proud to let fall.
"You are," she counters, her voice gaining a desperate edge. "Because if you weren't, you'd take accountability for your own mistakes. You'd go to the police and confess all those things you're trying to dump on me. But you won't, because you are a coward."
I give her a long, blank stare, letting the silence turn heavy and suffocating. My eyes drop to the silver gun in my lap. I begin to play with it carelessly, spinning it until the muzzle is pointed directly at her. I see it then—the subtle tremor in her hands, the way she holds her breath. The bold facade is cracking; the rabbit has realized just how close the teeth are.
"How about we go ahead with my confession sessions," I say, the words more of a command than a suggestion.
A long, thick silence stretches between us. I watch the hollow of her throat as she gulps, her pulse visible and frantic.
"Take a seat, Elena."
She doesn't argue this time. The defiance is still there in her eyes, but her body obeys the steel in my hand. She moves from the safety of the couch's back, walking around it with stiff, measured steps before sinking into the cushion right opposite me.
I tap the side of my gun lightly against my knee, the metallic thud punctuating the silence. Elena's eyes follow the movement, her gaze skeletal and wary, before she finally finds her voice.
"Can you please put it away?"
"Sure," I respond. I holster the weapon with a smooth, practiced motion and lean back against the plush velvet of her couch. I sit like that for a long moment, simply staring at her. I watch the way she fidgets. I wait until she becomes so self-aware, so weighed down by the heavy quiet, that her resolve finally snaps.
"So, What happened after you came out of the juvenile?"
A dark spark of satisfaction flickers in my chest. She's finally participating.
"I went on to find the other man involved in my mother's murder," I say, my voice devoid of emotion. "He was the one who actually pulled the trigger. The one who watched the light leave her eyes. So, I made sure his death was the epitome of pain. Do you want to know how I killed him?"
I arch a brow, watching her face pale. She doesn't respond—she doesn't have to. The horror written in her hazel eyes is answer enough.
"After I finished with him," I continue calmly, "I turned myself in."
Her eyes sharpen slightly at that.
"With all the evidence pointing directly at me, the court didn't waste much time deciding my fate."
A faint smile appears on my lips.
"They gave me the death penalty."