As much as I hate to say it, my shadow might not be wrong either. The man has a magnetism about him that rocks me to my core. He’s shifted my entire life out of balance.

He scares the fuck out of me. But just like watching a horror flick, it thrills me too. He was right when he said that if he had approached me in the bookstore and took me out like a normal man, I would’ve fallen for him. The way he carries himself, the way he speaks, and his passion are irresistible.

And he’s also right that if I had fallen in love with a lie, I would’ve been devastated. I just wish he wasn’t such a bad guy.

But then he’d be a different man—a man you might not be able to love.

Doesn’t matter.

I refuse to love my shadow. And I’m not going to fuck him, either. What happened two nights ago was sexual assault and I’m not going to spin it any other way.

“That’s not why I want justice for her,” I say quietly. My hand drops and I meet Daya’s soft gaze.

Never one to judge me. Even when I probably deserve it.

“I obviously never met Gigi, but Nana loved her to a million pieces. And I don’t think she ever quite got over it. Not only do I want justice for Gigi, but for Nana, too.”

That seems to placate her. “Good. Because I did find a lead on one of Seattle’s most notorious crime families in the 40s.”

I perk up, leaning over to look at the laptop screen. She turns it towards me for a better view.

“Back in the 40s, the Salvatore family ran the streets. Angelo Salvatore was the crime lord.” She points towards a picture of five men.

In the middle is what you would expect from an Italian mafia boss. Deeply tanned skin, large bulbous hooked nose and incredibly handsome, with his wide smile and sparkling brown eyes.

Surrounding him are four men, their ages ranging from what looks to be eighteen to late twenties. Based off the white hair peppered through Angelo's black hair, these must be his sons.

They all look like him and are equally good-looking. Two of them are wearing military fatigues, most likely having been drafted in WWII.

“Those are his four sons,” Daya confirms. “But they’re irrelevant, sexy as they are. Look in the background behind them. Do you see him?”

She points to a grainy, slightly blurred image of a man looking off in the distance behind the Salvatore family. Most of his body is concealed but what can be seen is a handsome face, part of a nice suit, and a top hat.

“This is the only picture I could find but I think there’s a possibility that’s Ronaldo.”

My nose is nearly smushed into the screen, I’m staring so hard. It’s a reach. Any man could be in a suit and a top hat in the 40s. But something is different about him.

“You see what I see?” Daya questions, excitement in her tone.

“He has a black eye, and his lip looks busted…” I trail off when I note Angelo's right hand, gripping a glass of alcohol. “Angelo's hand is busted too!”

I look to Daya and it’s like looking into a mirror. I know the excitement burning on her face reflects my own.

“And guess the date on the picture,” she says, smiling wider.

My eyes round. “Bitch, just tell me. “

“September 22nd, 1944. Four days after that entry from Gigi saying Ronaldo came in beat up.”

My mouth pops open, and I look back at the picture. Staring at the man that could’ve possibly been Gigi's stalker.

And her murderer.

I’m drunk.

I ended up drinking two more margaritas, and Daya had the bright idea to take more tequila shots.

My world spins as I stumble up the stairs, a giggling Daya on my heels. We’re both on all fours, our hands planted on the dirty wooden floors so we don’t fall.

“Bitch, why did you make me drink this much?” I ask, giggling harder when I almost topple sideways.

“I felt it was appro-ahh—appro—priate while we’re inveshtigating a murder,” she stutters, her voice wobbly and filled with giggles.

I snort in response, my vision still playing tilt-a-whirl with my head.

I walk her to the guest bedroom and help her get to bed. I’m not much help, considering I nearly send us both crashing to the ground a time or two when I try to help her get her jeans off.

“How are you going to get yours off?” she asks, staring at my jeans.

I wave a hand. “I’m sure the stalker will help me,” I retort. She widens her eyes comically.

“If he puts his peen in you, record it. I want to watch it later.”

Right now, the prospect of fucking my stalker seems hilarious. We'll both regret it later, I’m sure. If we even remember.

We giggle like schoolgirls, her laughter following me out of the room. I lean heavily against the wall as I stumble my way to the bedroom.

I don’t even bother trying to take my jeans off. I just plop on the bed, on top of the covers and everything, and I’m out seconds later.

A brush of skin across my cheek wakes me. I groan, my world still spinning as I open my crusted eyes and see my shadow standing by my bed, brushing the hair from my face.

“Oh, great,” I grumble. “You’re here.”

“Little mouse, are you drunk?”

“Way to ask the obvious,” I mumble, slurping up some drool that’s leaking out of my mouth.

I’m still too drunk to be embarrassed. Shakily, I sit up and stare around the room. The lights are still on—I guess I forgot to turn them off—and it feels wrong to see my stalker in anything but the darkness.

It makes him more real, and I don’t like it.

“Turn the light off,” I demand, refusing to meet his eyes. I much prefer when I can only see shadows of his face.

He turns and does what I say. I’m so surprised that he listened that I almost snap out another demand when the light clicks off, just to see what he’ll do.

He’s once again hidden in the shadows. When he walks through the room, it’s like the darkness clings to him. He is darkness.

I can’t figure out what scares me more—him in the dark, or him in the light.

“I need to take my jeans off. I suppose you’re going to watch me, aren’t you?”

The alcohol is making me feel bold right now. I’m not thinking about consequences or his threats. Even the fear I feel swirling around is muted.

Right now, I feel like I can say or do anything. Like being drunk somehow gives me a protective armor, when in reality, it just makes me more vulnerable.

He leans against my door, his arms crossed as he watches me unbutton my jeans and slide them down my thighs.

“You know,” I start, stumbling as I try to get the pant leg around my foot. Who the fuck invented skinny jeans, and why am I wearing them? “I don’t even know your name.”

“You never asked,” is his reply.

“I’m asking now, kitty cat.”

Finally, I get my foot through the hole and slide my leg out. I straighten and look at my freed leg in victory. One down. One to go.

“You know,” I say again, before he can even open his mouth. “I do quite like calling you kitty cat.”

“But it wouldn’t sound so good when you’re screaming it,” he taunts, his voice a little closer than it was before. I look up to see he's stepped away from the door, his form creeping through the darkness.

I snort. “You don’t think so? I bet I could make it sound good,” I challenge.

It looks like his entire body turns to stone. And that makes me feel even bolder. I slide the other pant leg off, this one going a little smoother than the other.

And then I climb up on the bed, in nothing but a bra and t-shirt and my purple thong.

He gets a good view of my ass, but that’s the least of my concerns. I grab a pillow and straddle it.

“Addie,” he growls his warning. The deep rumble has dampness gathering between my thighs. It’s unfair how his voice has a physical effect on my body, but I guess right now, it works for me.