Devil’s Thirst: A Mafia Stalker Romance (The Moretti Men Book 1)
Devil’s Thirst: Chapter 6

All I can think about for two days straight is the bizarre scene that played out with the masked man. I can’t stop wondering what he wants from me. Surely, it can’t be good if he had to make sure he was unidentifiable, but if he wanted to hurt me, why hasn’t he done it already? He had the perfect opportunity in that dressing room. The one thing he did do—besides scare me to death and look bored out of his mind—was keep me from burning myself. What kind of criminal stalks a woman, puts on a mask, and hides in her dressing room, only to prevent her from accidentally hurting herself before disappearing?

I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. It sounds like pure fantasy.

And if I need more proof that I have more issues than brains, I replace myself envisioning my masked watcher as some sort of hero like Zorro or Robin Hood.

What the hell is wrong with me? Just because he didn’t rape me on the spot doesn’t make him a good man. Decent human beings don’t terrorize other people for no reason.

Maybe that’s what gets him off.

Great. I’ll add that to my list of fears to obsess over. Thanks for the support.

My eyes roll in a sweeping arc inside their sockets. I sometimes wonder if everyone argues with themselves as much as I do. I’d like to think so, but the more likely answer is that it’s a manifestation of my inevitable spiral into insanity. That’s what happens to people like me, right? All the good serial killer documentaries start with a detailed account of the killer’s multitude of Mommy issues. I have those in abundance.

My internal dialogue has been so incessant that I’ve had to get out of my apartment and wander the city on my Saturday off just to escape myself. I did get a couple of errands run, including a trip to the grocery store. The distraction helped, but I’m barely off the elevator on my way home when the cyclone of thoughts swirls back into action.

I do my best to mentally put a lid on the subject while redistributing my packages to free up a hand. Between restocking my fridge and a few other stops, my arms are laden with heavy shopping bags. Just as I free my left hand, I round a corner and collide with someone. A very large someone who might as well have been a wall for all intents and purposes.

I yip with surprise as my body ricochets backward. My tailbone can practically feel the bruising impact of the floor already, but it never comes to pass because two strong hands clamp firmly around my arms and haul me back upright.

“Oh!” I gasp. “Thank you, I mean. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.” Words tumble past my lips as I collect myself but die a quick death when I take in the man before me. He towers over me, but that’s not what first seizes my attention. It takes a unique degree of confidence to tattoo your entire neck and presumably much more. That sort of statement demands attention.

The ink frames his angular jawline and gives the intensity of his stare a frightening edge. His eyes are deep set beneath a heavy brow such that his mahogany irises could pass for black. The man is imposing, to say the least, and I replace myself totally captivated. The dichotomy of savage beauty is breathtaking.

Once I’m steady and begin to return to my senses, I realize he’s yet to say a word—or release me.

I glance down at his hand on my arm and see that even his fingers and the backs of his hands are adorned with black ink.

“I’m good now. You can let go,” I offer quietly before returning my gaze to his.

His grip slowly relents, but he doesn’t step away. We’re closer than is customary for two strangers. My proximity to him is dizzying, his spiced scent not helping matters.

“You need a hand?” he asks, helping to deflate the mounting tension but only marginally. His sultry tone is too heavy with undecipherable meaning to be fully reassuring. If this is his being chill, he probably sends women into full-blown seizures when he’s trying. He’d have to be banned from clubs as a fire hazard when every pair of panties in the place spontaneously combusts.

Sweet Mother Mary, get ahold of yourself, Mel.

“No, I got it. I live right there.” I motion to my door ten feet away.

“Then we’re neighbors.”

“I beg your pardon?” I peer wide-eyed at the open door behind me. “That’s Mr. Sorrell’s place.”

“Not anymore, it’s not.”

“He moved? When? I never even heard him leave.” Or anyone new move in. How had I completely missed this transition?

Good God, I am losing my mind.

“This week.”

Okayyy, that explains very little.

He’s not exactly a conversationalist, yet he’s not making excuses to leave either. That puts us in an awkward in-between that I’m at a loss to define. He’s somewhat blocking my path with no indication he’s prepared to step aside, but his tone and demeanor drip with indifference. Maybe this is his best effort at being polite since we’re neighbors now. For all I know, he could be a little neurospicy and be completely oblivious to the awkward tension quickly filling the air.

Whatever the case, it’s time for my escape.

“Oh, okay. Well, it was good to meet you…” I wait for his answer to my implied question.

“Call me Isaac.”

What an odd way to introduce himself.

Good grief, Mel. Stop overanalyzing every-freaking-thing.

Fine, but it’s still weird.

“And you may call me Amelie,” I say with a hint of mock formality.

You are so going to hell. What if this man is genuinely neurodivergent, and you’re mocking him?

If I had a hand available, I’d clamp it over my mouth to keep me from saying anything more. I don’t know what’s come over me. Something about his unrelenting intensity makes me desperate to shatter his composure, and that’s so not me. Not even close.

I spent seventeen years doing everything I could to earn the approval of everyone around me and the next four years trying to simply go unnoticed. I’ve never been difficult for the sake of being difficult until this very moment. It’s strange and a little electrifying. And I don’t feel quite so guilty when I note the tiniest twitch of his lips.

Was that amusement? It’s hard to say because it’s gone the second it registers, his mask of stoic indifference slipping back into place.

I give him a thin smile and start to squeeze around him. “Enjoy your evening,” I mutter once I’m free.

“Amelie.” My name on his lips is a lasso cinched tight around my waist, forcing my attention back to him. I stand, breathless as I watch him bend over and retrieve something off the floor, then lazily stalk toward me.

“You dropped this.” In his hand is the zippered silicon pouch I keep in my purse filled with sewing supplies.

I try to take it from him, but he shifts, indicating he’s not done examining its contents. “It’s a sewing kit for my shoes.”

“You sew your shoes?”

“Pointe shoes. I’m a ballet dancer.” I don’t necessarily want to tell him about myself, but I’ll sound like a total weirdo if I don’t explain. Women my age don’t normally carry around sewing kits.

He slides the pouch back into my tote purse. “You really should have let me give you a hand,” he continues in that devastatingly sultry tone of his.

“Why’s that?” I ask dazedly.

“Because then I would have had a reason to come inside.” The heat that flashes in his eyes and the implication of his words catches me by surprise. Is this man … coming onto me? I’d questioned seconds ago whether he might be on the spectrum, but now, I’m starting to wonder if he’s simply toying with me.

He’s impossible to read—that alone should have me running in the opposite direction. I like attention as much as the next girl, but this man is one giant red flag.

“That’s not going to happen,” I say softly, hoping I don’t anger him. I’ve known him all of two seconds and have no idea what rejection might do to him. I discreetly punch in the code to my door and turn the handle.

He leans his broad shoulder against the doorframe. “And why’s that?” he asks in a soft murmur that matches my own words. The words feather across my skin, clearly meant to seduce. “Is someone waiting inside for you?”

His question winds me like a punch to the gut.

He has no idea that he’s struck at my most exposed nerve, and I don’t care to share that with him, so I douse my sparking anger with a cauldron of icy water.

I consider lying to him for a split second as I stare motionless at my door. It’s only the briefest whisp of a thought brought on by shame that I refuse to give power to.

The fact that I am alone is not a reflection of who I am or my worth.

I say the words in my head with fierce conviction, yet the backs of my eyes still burn from the unintended reminder.

“No, there’s not,” I say before boldly meeting his stare. Who cares if he can see the glassy tinge to my eyes?

I don’t offer any further explanation. I don’t have to. I owe this man nothing. Instead, I let myself inside and close the door behind me.