The Eyes Behind Me

Chapter Two

I didn't sleep.

Not really.

I lay on my bed with the curtains closed, staring at the ceiling while every sound from the street made my heart jump.

A car passing.

Footsteps on the pavement.

Someone closing a door in the apartment downstairs.

Every noise became a warning.

Every shadow outside my window looked like a man in a black suit.

I kept seeing him.

The gun in his hand.

The coldness in his eyes.

The way he'd looked at me.

I rolled onto my side and pulled the blanket over my shoulders.

It didn't help.

Nothing helped.

My phone was on the pillow beside me.

The emergency number was still open on the screen.

I'd stared at it for almost an hour after getting home.

I should call.

I knew I should.

But what would I say?

Hello, officer. I just witnessed a man being murdered.

Yes, I know who did it.

No, I don't know his name.

Except I did.

Damien.

That was what the victim had called him.

Would the police believe me?

Would they protect me?

Would they even find him?

And what if they didn't?

The thought made my stomach twist.

I finally closed my eyes.

The alarm on my phone went off less than two hours later.

I groaned and reached for it blindly.

Five-thirty.

I had forgotten to turn it off.

For a few seconds, I didn't remember where I was.

Then everything came rushing back.

The warehouse.

The gunshot.

His eyes.

I sat up so quickly my head spun.

"Stop," I whispered.

I pressed my palms against my face.

I couldn't fall apart.

Not today.

My father needed me.

That had always been enough to make me keep going.

I showered quickly, pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater, tied my hair into a messy ponytail, and left the apartment.

The hospital was twenty minutes away by bus.

I arrived shortly after six.

The fluorescent lights in the lobby made everything look too bright.

Too clean.

Too normal.

As if the world hadn't changed overnight.

I walked toward the elevators.

"Miss Moretti?"

I turned.

A nurse approached me.

"Good morning."

"Good morning."

"Your father's condition is stable."

I nodded.

"Can I see him?"

"Of course."

I followed her upstairs.

My father's room was quiet.

Machines beeped softly beside the bed.

His eyes were closed.

His face looked thinner than I remembered.

I sat beside him and took his hand.

It was warm.

That was what mattered.

"Hi, Dad."

My voice cracked.

I swallowed.

"I'm here."

He didn't move.

I smiled anyway.

"You'd hate the coffee here."

I looked at the cup I'd bought downstairs.

"It tastes like someone boiled a shoe."

Nothing.

I squeezed his fingers.

"I worked last night."

I paused.

"I know you'd tell me not to."

My eyes burned.

"But I have it under control."

That was a lie.

I was getting very good at those.

"I'll take care of you."

I leaned forward and rested my forehead against his hand.

"I promise."

For the first time since the shooting, I felt almost safe.

Almost.

Then my phone vibrated.

I pulled it from my pocket.

Unknown number.

My stomach tightened.

I stared at the screen.

It stopped.

A second later, it vibrated again.

I didn't answer.

The call ended.

Then a message appeared.

You shouldn't have taken that street last night.

My blood ran cold.

I looked around the room.

Nobody.

The nurse had left.

I stared at the message again.

Another one arrived.

Go home, Lena.

I dropped the phone.

It landed on the chair beside me.

My breathing became shallow.

They knew my name.

How?

I picked up the phone with trembling hands.

I wanted to call the police.

This time I almost did.

Then another message appeared.

Don't make this difficult.

I looked at my father.

Fear crawled through my chest.

Someone knew exactly who I was.

Someone knew where I lived.

Someone knew where my father was.

I stood abruptly.

I walked to the window.

Outside, the hospital parking lot was filling with cars.

Doctors.

Nurses.

Visitors.

Normal people.

I searched the crowd.

Nothing.

Then I saw it.

A black SUV parked across the street.

My heart stopped.

I couldn't see the driver's face.

The windows were tinted.

But I knew.

I knew that car.

I stepped away from the window.

"No."

My phone vibrated again.

I didn't look.

I already knew.

I walked back to my father's bedside.

For several seconds, I just stood there.

Then I made a decision.

I couldn't stay.

I couldn't leave him either.

So I did the only thing I could think of.

I called the nurse.

"I need someone to stay with my father."

She frowned.

"Is everything okay?"

"Yes."

The lie came easily.

"I just have an emergency at work."

She nodded and promised to arrange it.

I kissed my father's forehead.

"I'll be back."

I left the room.

The elevator seemed to take forever.

When the doors opened on the ground floor, I saw the hospital entrance.

And outside it—

The black SUV.

My pulse accelerated.

I turned around.

I walked toward the cafeteria instead.

I didn't know why.

I simply needed to avoid the entrance.

I sat at a table near the back and pulled my phone from my pocket.

There were three new messages.

You're being watched.

We know where you go.

Don't test us.

I stared at them.

Then I noticed something else.

A photograph.

My finger hovered over it before I opened it.

It was me.

Standing outside the hospital.

Taken from across the street.

Taken minutes ago.

I stopped breathing.

Someone was watching me right now.

I slowly lifted my eyes.

The cafeteria was crowded.

A doctor reading something.

Two nurses talking.

A man drinking coffee.

An elderly woman beside the window.

Nothing seemed unusual.

Until I saw a man standing near the entrance.

Black coat.

Dark hair.

He wasn't looking at me.

At least not directly.

But I knew.

I stood.

He looked toward me.

Our eyes met.

Then he walked away.

I followed.

Not because I was brave.

Because I was terrified.

I pushed through the cafeteria doors and hurried after him.

He disappeared around the corner.

I reached the hallway.

Empty.

I looked left.

Right.

Nothing.

Then I heard a voice behind me.

"Miss Moretti."

I froze.

A man stood several feet away.

Not the same man.

This one was older.

Gray hair.

Expensive suit.

His expression was polite.

Almost friendly.

That made him more frightening.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Victor."

"How do you know me?"

"I know quite a lot about you."

My stomach dropped.

"My father is in this hospital."

"I know."

"What do you want?"

He smiled faintly.

"Nothing."

"Then leave me alone."

He stepped closer.

I stepped back.

"You saw something last night that you weren't supposed to see."

I couldn't speak.

"I suggest you forget it."

"What happens if I don't?"

His expression changed.

Only slightly.

But enough.

"That would be unfortunate."

I turned and walked away.

I refused to run.

I refused to give him the satisfaction.

But the moment I reached the elevator, I pressed the button repeatedly.

The doors opened.

I stepped inside.

Victor remained in the hallway.

He didn't follow.

He simply watched.

As the doors closed, I saw him pull out his phone.

He made a call.

"She's frightened," he said.

A pause.

Then he added:

"Yes. She knows."

The elevator doors shut completely.

I leaned against the wall.

My hands were shaking.

I had no idea who Victor was.

I didn't know who the man outside the hospital was.

I didn't know who had sent the messages.

But I knew one thing.

This wasn't over.

When I returned home later that morning, I checked every lock twice.

Then three times.

I closed the curtains.

I turned off the lights.

And I sat on the floor beside my bed with my knees pressed against my chest.

For the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to be hunted.

I had spent the previous night believing I'd accidentally witnessed a crime.

I was beginning to understand the truth.

I hadn't simply seen a murder.

I had seen something belonging to a man powerful enough to make people disappear.

And that man had seen me.

Across the city, Damien De Luca stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office.

Victor stood behind him.

"She went to the hospital."

"I know."

"She's terrified."

Damien said nothing.

Victor hesitated.

"Should we handle it?"

Damien finally turned.

His expression was unreadable.

"No."

Victor raised an eyebrow.

"She saw the whole thing."

"I know."

"She could go to the police."

"She hasn't."

"Yet."

Damien looked down at the photograph in his hand.

Lena Moretti.

Nineteen.

No criminal history.

No boyfriend.

No significant social connections.

Father in a coma.

Working nights at the Velvet Room.

A student.

Barely making enough money to survive.

A girl who had accidentally stepped into a world she couldn't possibly understand.

Damien studied her photograph.

She looked younger than she had the night before.

In the picture, she was standing outside the hospital with fear written across her face.

He remembered the way she'd looked at him.

Not fascination.

Not curiosity.

Fear.

Good.

Fear kept people alive.

Sometimes.

"Find out everything," Damien said.

Victor nodded.

"And if she talks?"

Damien's eyes hardened.

"She won't."

"You sound certain."

"I am."

Victor glanced at the photograph.

"Why?"

Damien looked at him.

"Because she has someone to lose."

He placed the photograph on his desk.

His fingers rested briefly against the edge.

"People like Lena Moretti don't take risks for themselves."

His voice was quiet.

"They take them for the people they love."

Victor waited.

"And her father," Damien continued, "is the only reason she hasn't broken yet."

He picked up his phone.

"Keep watching her."

"How close?"

"Close enough to know if she's in danger."

Victor frowned.

"From us?"

Damien's expression darkened.

"From everyone."

Because there was something Victor didn't know.

Something Damien had noticed the moment he saw Lena standing in that alley.

She hadn't looked like someone who would survive in his world.

But she had run.

She had escaped.

And she hadn't spoken.

That made her interesting.

And, for reasons Damien didn't yet understand, he didn't want her dead.

Not yet.

Not ever, perhaps.

He didn't know why.

He only knew one thing.

Lena Moretti had become his problem.

And Damien De Luca never allowed anyone to touch what belonged to him.