Daya cocks a brow, unimpressed with my attitude. I sigh, a headache blooming right between my eyes. I rub at the spot, stalling as I try to figure out what I want to say.
Because she’s not entirely wrong.
Maybe I just want to be able to say that all stalkers are crazy, and that it’s not possible to fall in love with one. I want to be able to say it’s never happened before. And I want to say it’s absolutely impossible to find myself in a loving, passionate, and healthy relationship with a person who invaded every aspect of my life unapologetically.
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.