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I place the grocery bag on my kitchen counter before searching the living room. No one so far. Tuna waltzes up to me, demanding to be fed. I pick him up as I search the rest of my apartment. No one. Aside from the music, nothing seems to be taken or misplaced.
That is of course, until I step into my room. He’s somehow hacked the code yet again, even after I changed it, and when I open the door, my jaw grinds.
The asshole vandalized almost every photo. Every person has been marked out of the photos. Except for him.
Does this guy have a complex or what?
My phone buzzes, and I open it to an unknown number.
Unknown number: I didn’t take you for a Frank Sinatra fan
My teeth are grinding so hard now, I think I might actually break a tooth. He broke into my house for a second time.
I think back to Dmitri’s warning. I should be scared. Should be rattled. However I’ve had enough of these games. I won’t be broken just because he thinks he’s some kind of god who has access to everything I do or own.
That resolve, however, doesn’t lessen the irate, seething hate that I have for the man.
For the first time, I’ve been trumped.
I can’t fucking stand it.
I ignore his message as I walk back out into the kitchen. I fish out a can of food for Tuna and fill his dish.
My phone buzzes again. Unknown number.
I quite enjoy the lacy lingerie, but it goes without saying you won’t be showing those to anyone else.
The urge to obliterate my phone in my hand is a living, breathing thing. Until I realize he might’ve seen the photo in the bottom of my drawer. I didn’t want him touching any part of my precious memories. He can take most things, but not that. When I franticly open the drawer, it’s still tucked away and hidden. That doesn’t mean anything. He could’ve literally gone through everything and most likely did.
Fuck.
I hate this man so much.
On top of that he’s ruined Frank Sinatra for me as well. I go to throw the record in the trash. When I open the garbage can, I pause, my eye twitching.
Four boxes of Twinkies sit elbow deep in the bin.
Mother fucker.
When I inspect the cupboard, they’re all gone.
Did you throw out my Twinkies?
I’m fuming as I hit send.
I did. They’re horrible for your health. I’m doing you a favor
.
Now I’m shaking. You can break into my home and go through my shit. But throw out my Twinkies and you’re going to see my psycho come out.
Three bubbles dance on the text screen. He’s writing another message. It better be a fucking apology, but I can’t imagine Luca even knowing how.
Also, you need a better coffee machine and more high-quality coffee. I expected more from someone with Italian heritage.
I pause. I hate how much this fucker knows about me already. My mother was Italian, and although I was introduced to some delicacies and learned the language fluently, that was as far as my exposure went. No family or trips to the country my mother grew up in.
I hate he probably knows all of this already.
