Chapter 6 - Antonio

She never looks behind her.

That was the first thing that pissed me off about her.

Most people do. Not immediately — not when they think they're imagining things — but eventually. A glance in a window to catch a shadow. A slight turn of the head. A stumble meant to bait whoever's there into revealing themselves. Something dramatic.

Daisy Harrison does none of it.

She doesn't know someone is after her for her father's debts. For weeks, I've had my men tail her every move. Not once has she questioned her sanity. Not out loud anyway. Every CCTV frame I have watched, they capture her strength in stride. No falter. No glance over her shoulder. She's either oblivious or indifferent to her safety — and that's the second thing that pisses me off about the woman I am currently watching from the shadows.

I learned about Daisy in fragments at first — photographs sliding across my desk back in New York, timestamps scribbled on the back: where she went, who she was with. Quiet reports, delivered without commentary. I know what time she locks the bookstore. I know which streetlight flickers at the corner she never hesitates at. I know she buys the same tea every six days and only ever glances at her phone when it rings and then puts it away as if no one is actually calling. I know she listens to Metallica and Rock on the way to work, - probably to be away from any noise that's outside - and soft music while reading at the store. Compliments to my hacker back home.

Routine is a language.

She speaks it fluently. She doesn't miss a beat.

I study the latest photos on my phone, grainy, distant, respectful of shadows: Daisy adjusting her scarf. Daisy walking alone, spine straight, pace even, head held high. I'm only in the shadows, and since my brother was fine to lead the businesses back home, I'm watching my prey.

Not once has she looked panicked.

It bothers me. I don't even understand why, but it does.

Fear announces itself early. A hitch in the step. A nervous glance. People want to be caught looking over their shoulder — it makes them feel proactive, like prey pretending it has claws.

Daisy doesn't pretend. At this point, I don't even know I understand what she's doing.

"She doesn't react to being followed," Xander says, nodding at the screen in front of him. I didn't send him to scare her. Women dodge him unless it's for the thrill, a night in the sheets with a mad man. A night to remember but only that one night because my best friends 'True love' is all the way back home and has conveniently told her co workers she engaged. So he isn't in the best of moods. Where as Luca is somewhat Approachable. Even he makes grown ass men piss themselves. But Daisy? Not her. She's a mystery I need to solve and solve it I will.

"I gathered that. Are the gifts ready for her?" I ask, my eyes never leaving her as she walks home. I know this because I have watched her walk it several times before. On screen and off it.

"I have them ready. Diego said she usually gets her mail early, and get this, after doing a fine research of all her banking history, what goes in and what comes out, she isn't in any debt of any kind," he replies. I nod. How is this woman related to scum of the earth, Jerry Harrison? That man is in enough debt that not even the black market would pay a third of it off even if he sold a limb of his.

We keep watching her. She ascends the stairs to her rundown apartment, and I ask the question I wish I hadn't:

"Any boyfriends I need to know about?"

Reaction isn't always loud. Sometimes restraint. Sometimes defiance cloaked as calm. My best friend grins smugly. That's his loud reaction.

"Mr. I-don't-want-a-wife? I knew it was bullshit the moment you left your brother in charge of your empire to come down here."

I punch his shoulder but I do have a smirk on my face. I can feel it.

I usually wait for half an hour, watching as lights in her place go on and off again but it's not ten minutes later that she emerges back outside and walks toward the busy streets of London. I follow, as always, in the shadows. Watching. Waiting. Calculating. Imagining my approach, feeling the fight leave her as I imagine my hands around her throat to grip her in place. Her fire draining as she realises I have the upper hand.

She feels it.

Not through a lens. Not through someone else's eyes. This part is mine. It's not voyeurism, although I wouldn't mind having people watch who owns her, mind, body and soul. That thought has my dick standing to attention. This bad habit of mine is making me feel more alive than I ever have before.

Her ass sways with every step, her body wrapped in winter Armor, scarf tight around her neck. Fascinating. Dangerous. Her coat at a good legnth but you can still see her ass in those leggings. Her long ish brown hair that travels down her curvy body and sits at her spine. The hat she's wearing is stopping the wind from taking her hir in all directions but I wouldn't mind it wrapped around my fists as I'm pounding into her from behind. 

She pauses — half a second before turning the corner. Brief, almost imperceptible.

My smile is slow. Empty.

She definitely feels it.

Good.

I don't move closer. A presence is more effective when you can't see it. I want her wondering if she's imagining things. I want uncertainty to bleed into her sleep, her solitude, her quiet. Her fear. I want doubt to infect her every thoughts. I want her lying awake, listening for sounds that never come.

"She notices she's being followed, but she acts as if she isn't" I murmur to Xander, amusement curling in my chest. I could end this quickly. Break down her door, Demand payment, Leave her shaking and crying and not in the best kind of way either. and leave London completely. Get back to my life in New York and still kill Jerry motherfucking Harrison. She's just a woman in a big city. A bookstore attendant. Has a quiet life. Is Shy. Meek. Bland. Spoilt. 

She is everything I hate in a woman. I don't want a spoiled princess. I want a warrior. Someone who fights back. Gives attitude. Demands everything she deserves. But I also want someone who tires before she breaks, gives me all of her before I'm leaving her boneless on the pavement.

People break faster when they're exhausted.

She keeps walking. Measured. Protected in calm. She learned early how to endure without asking for mercy.

I won't reward that.

When she collides with Luca, I watch them both closely. He was given strict instructions.

One impact.

Nothing more.

It's then that I notice it. She flinches—barely. A controlled fracture, sealed instantly. Her mouth is sharper than her body. No apology. No retreat. But I saw it.     Vedo tutto.    -I See All-

She doesn't bleed.

She cuts.

Later, Luca confirms what I already know.

She doesn't scare easily.

That's why the gifts matter.

The rose is a misdirection. The bracelet is a scare tactic. It about to be her downfall.

I know her name.

I know her address.

I choose when I'm seen.

No note. No signature.

Names give power. And she isn't ready for my power just yet.

This is my last pit stop before I inform her of my now changed plans. Plans that are going to effect her. An oath... The Omertà. A Symbol that means you only get out of it through death.

Secrets are sacred. Trust and Loyalty is everything. It's a Symbol of trust and commitment. .

I don't want screams or police threats or chaos. That kind of fear burns out too fast. It's dramatic and boring.

I want decay.

Lights left on all night.

Breaths held too long.

Moments where she wonders if she's finally unravelling.

She'll question herself long before she questions me.

And when she finally stands in front of me—when the shadow becomes a man—the first thing she'll feel won't be terror.

It will be relief.

Relief that the waiting is over.

Relief that the dark has shape.

That's when people give in.

Not when they're afraid.

When they're ready to run but they're too burned out to run.

She's already mine to observe.

To pressure.

To dismantle and break.

Soon she'll understand the dark was never the danger.

It was the man who learned how she survives inside it.