An Intruder

I never thought men who had piercings and tattoos were hot. Whenever I thought of settling down with someone, I always imagined a man who was dressed in a clean-cut suit.

I never imagined being attracted to a gangster and a murderer.

“You have to stop coming into my house unannounced. I don’t appreciate it at all.” I said, my voice shaking and my hands trembling.

Who could blame me for being scared of Emilio Vitale? Everyone else in Sicily was.

He put out his cigarette and threw the remaining bit in the bin I kept on the balcony. He smirked and walked past me into my house. I followed after him, scared of what he would do.

I didn’t want to do his bidding. But he was a dangerous man, and Papá had already told me that he was unpredictable. He could kill me when he saw fit, and no one would catch him. After all, he had been a fugitive for two weeks, and the police weren’t close to finding him.

I heard Sandro tell my father that during the brunch, when they thought no one was listening.

The man in my house walked to my kitchen, and only then did I notice there was food set on the table, and a few candles lit. There was even a rose in a vase in the middle.

The man had clearly been in my house since I left, cooking. The scent of food in the air when I first arrived suddenly made sense.

He had made Caprese Salad as a starter dish, Pasta alla Carbonara for the main dish with grilled vegetables on the side, and there was a bottle of very expensive red wine that I knew cost at least six thousand dollars.

Anyone on the outside looking in could easily assume that he was trying to flatter me. The whole scene was romantic.

“What’s this?” I asked, but he didn’t answer. He walked to my small dinner table and pulled out a chair for me. “I’m not hungry, Vitale. What I want is for you to get out of my apartment.”

On cue, my stomach grumbled, making me blush in embarrassment.

I had barely eaten at brunch because of nerves, and then I had to drive one and a half hours to get to my apartment. My parents lived in Corleone, which was far from Palermo, where every important company was.

Even when my father worked, he lived in a penthouse he owned in Palermo, but aside from that, he was at Corleone most of the time.

“Sit down and eat with me, Incantatrice,” he said. He called me an enchantress. I highly doubted he found me enchanting, but I wouldn’t comment on it because I knew he wanted me to.

Aside from that, the food was alluring, and I was hungry, so I walked to the seat he had pulled out for me and made myself comfortable. He sat down opposite me and poured me a glass of wine.

“How was your day?” I asked.

The lights in my kitchen were dim, so the candles added an aura of romance. I hated to admit it, but it was a date I had always wanted to have. Every woman wanted to come home to find food her husband had made for her one day.

He had even done the dishes. The only evidence that he had cooked was the scent of food in the air.

“Why are you so interested in small talk? You’re here to threaten me, and yet you’re making me food and acting romantic.”

He grabbed the remote to the stereo and turned on the music, as if to aggravate me.

Aside from that, I couldn’t deny that the food was very delicious. I fought the urge to close my eyes and savour the taste.

“You’re better off answering my questions, little birdie,” he said as he took out his gun and put it on the table. That movement alone made my heart drop in my stomach.

I was scared of him, but I wasn’t going to show him. He liked fear. It excited him—I could see it in his eyes.

“I’ll ask again. How was your day?” He repeated.

“It was going well until I saw you,” I said before I could stop myself. He just made me so mad.

I looked at the gun, wondering if I could reach for it and shoot him in the head before he reacted. He also looked at the gun, like he could sense what I was thinking.

“You have a killer instinct, Chiara. You crave darkness.”

“You don’t know anything about me, Emilio—”

“Please, call me Milo. After all, I know where you keep all your utensils. You’re unbelievably organized. I didn’t even have to struggle to look for anything.”

I clutched my fork tighter, so mad that steam could have come out of my ears if I were a cartoon character. He was acting like I had invited him into my home when I felt violated in more ways than one.

“God, I want to stab you in the eye with this fork so bad,” I gritted out and groaned.

He didn’t seem fazed by anger. If anything, he was amused by it, judging by the smile on his face. He didn’t have the face of a killer, but I knew men like him. They smiled at you, but their kiss tasted like death.

Not that I was imagining kissing Emilio.

As quickly as he had turned charming, a dark look flashed over his face. His smile and any signs of amusement were gone from his eyes. He sat upright and looked me dead in the eye. The look was so scary that I almost cowered.

That one look was enough to warn you how dangerous he was.

“I want you to replace some documents in the evidence box. I want my signatures to disappear from documents incriminating me in wire fraud, embezzlement, and money laundering. You should also swap documents with financial numbers for others that don’t add up.”

My jaw fell when he uttered what he wanted me to do so casually, like he was talking about the weather. He was asking me to commit crimes, for heaven’s sake.

“You’re joking,” I said, laughing nervously.

My laugh disappeared when he continued to look at me like the predator I knew him to be. For a moment there, he had fooled me into seeing him as anything more than a predator and a murderer.

I knew the price for protecting my father would be high, but I guess I expected Emilio to change his mind and use someone else instead. Silly me.

“You are to do it tomorrow. The fake documents you’ll plant as replacements will be here before you have to go to work.”

“I’m not even allowed at work,” I said, my voice small, hoping he would spare me.

“You’ll find a way. You’re smart, little bird.”

“And if I get caught—”

“You won’t get caught. You’re smart. Don’t worry about the cameras. I’ll take care of it.”

That wasn’t very reassuring, and I hated it. I didn’t have a say in the matter.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked him, tears gathering in my eyes.

“I have no empathy, Chiara. I was diagnosed as a psychopath when I was ten years old. Crying won’t move me. Besides, I told you this wasn’t personal. You have your father to blame for all of this.” He said as he put food in his mouth. When he swallowed, he said, “Now come on. Don’t be rude. I cooked for you. The least you could do is finish your food.”

We ate in silence while I struggled to keep myself from crying. When I was done eating, he told me to go and take a shower. He was gone the moment I came out. Only then did I allow myself to break down and sob.