Chapter Fifty Five
Chapter Fifty Five
Felicia’s POV
The lights flickered out, plunging the apartment into a suffocating black. The creak of a floorboard echoed somewhere down the hall, sharp and deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. My breath caught, my hand tightening around Henry’s wrist as he clutched the switchblade he’d pulled from the doorframe.
“He’s here,” I whispered, the words barely audible over the hammering of my heart.
Henry’s grip on the knife steadied, his body shifting to shield me. “Stay behind me,” he hissed, his voice low and fierce. “Don’t move.”
I nodded, though he couldn’t see it, my eyes straining against the darkness. The note—“Too late. I’m already here”—burned in my mind, each word a taunt from Dante. He’d outplayed us again, slipping past our plan before we’d even set it in motion. The diner, the trap—it was all a fantasy now. He was steps away, and we were cornered.
Another creak, closer this time. My stomach twisted, every nerve screaming to run, but there was nowhere to go. The apartment felt like a cage, the walls closing in with every sound.
Henry edged forward, his free hand brushing my arm as if to reassure me—or himself. “Dante,” he called, his voice cutting through the silence. “Show yourself, you coward.”
A low chuckle slithered out of the dark, chilling me to the bone. It came from the kitchen, maybe ten feet away. “Cute,” Dante drawled, his voice smooth and mocking. “Loverboy’s got a knife. What’s the plan, huh? Stab me in the shadows?”
My blood ran cold. He was toying with us, enjoying this. I pressed closer to Henry, my hand fumbling for my phone. If I could call 911—
“Don’t bother,” Dante said, as if reading my mind. Something clattered to the floor—my phone, yanked from my pocket in the chaos, now useless. “No one’s coming to save you.”
Henry lunged toward the sound, the knife slashing through empty air. Dante laughed again, the noise darting to the left—behind the couch now. He was moving, circling, playing with us like a cat with a dying bird.
“Stop it!” I shouted, my voice cracking. “What do you want, Dante? Just tell me!”
The laughter stopped. For a moment, there was nothing—just the rasp of our breathing, the distant wail of sirens too far to matter. Then his voice came again, closer, almost at my ear. “You know what I want, Felicia. You saw too much. And now you’ve dragged him into it.”
I flinched, spinning around, but he was already gone, a shadow melting back into the dark. Henry grabbed my arm, pulling me toward the bedroom—the only room with a lock. “Move,” he whispered, shoving me ahead of him.
We stumbled inside, slamming the door shut. Henry fumbled with the lock, his hands shaking as badly as mine. It clicked into place, a flimsy barrier between us and Dante, but it was something.
I pressed my back to the wall, my chest heaving. “He’s going to kill us,” I said, the truth spilling out raw and ugly. “He won’t stop until we’re gone.”
Henry turned to me, his face barely visible in the faint moonlight seeping through the blinds. “He’s not getting through that door,” he said, gripping the knife tighter. “Not while I’m here.”
But his voice wavered, and I saw the doubt in his eyes—the same fear gnawing at me. We were trapped, waiting for Dante to make his next move. And he would. He always did.
Then Henry’s phone buzzed in his pocket, a harsh vibration that made us both jump. He pulled it out, the screen casting a pale glow over his face. His brow furrowed as he read, and then his expression crumpled—anger giving way to something broken.
“What?” I demanded, stepping closer. “What is it?”
He didn’t answer right away, just stared at the screen, his jaw clenching so tight I thought his teeth might crack. Finally, he handed me the phone, his hand trembling.
It was an email from a Dr. Ellis at Willow Creek Rehab. The subject line read: “Update on Sophia Markov.” My stomach dropped as I skimmed the message:
“Mr. Markov, I regret to inform you that your sister, Sophia, has shown no significant progress in her recovery. Her recent relapse has set back her treatment considerably. We’re adjusting her program, but her condition remains unstable. Please contact us to discuss next steps.”
I looked up at Henry, my throat tightening. Sophia—his little sister, the one he’d fought so hard to get into rehab after her overdose last year. He’d poured everything into saving her, and now this.
“Henry…” I started, but he shook his head, his eyes glistening in the dim light.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice rough. “Not now.”
But I couldn’t stop. “This isn’t your fault—”
“It’s not about fault!” he snapped, his voice rising before he caught himself, glancing at the door. He lowered it to a harsh whisper. “She’s my responsibility. I promised her I’d fix this, and I can’t even—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. “And now we’re stuck here, with him out there, and I can’t do a damn thing.”
The weight of it hit me—his pain, my guilt, the suffocating terror of Dante lurking beyond the door. It was too much. I slid down the wall, my knees buckling, tears spilling over again. “I’m sorry,” I choked out. “For all of it. Sophia, this—everything. I dragged you into my mess, and now—”
“Stop.” He knelt in front of me, grabbing my shoulders. “You didn’t drag me anywhere. I chose this. I chose you. And Sophia… I’ll figure it out. We’ll figure it out. But we’ve got to get through tonight first.”
His words were a lifeline, but they couldn’t erase the dread pooling in my gut. Dante was out there, and now Henry’s world was cracking apart too.
A soft scrape came from the other side of the door, like a blade tracing the wood. My breath hitched, and Henry’s head snapped toward the sound. He stood, positioning himself between me and the door, the knife raised.
“We need a plan,” he whispered, his voice steady despite the chaos in his eyes. “He’s not getting in here without a fight.”
I wiped my face, forcing myself to think. “The window,” I said, nodding toward it. “It’s a fire escape. We could get out, get help—”
“And leave him in here?” Henry shook his head. “He’d just follow us. We need to end this now.”
“How?” I asked, desperation creeping in. “He’s got us pinned.”
Henry’s jaw tightened. “We lure him in. Make him think we’re running—open the window, make noise. When he comes through the door, I take him down.”
It was reckless, dangerous, but it was something. I nodded, my heart pounding. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
We moved fast. I shoved the window open, the cold night air rushing in, while Henry kicked over a chair to mimic a stumble. “Go!” he shouted, loud enough for Dante to hear, then pulled me back against the wall beside the door.
The scraping stopped. Silence stretched, thick and oppressive. Then the doorknob rattled—once, twice—before a heavy thud slammed against it. The wood groaned but held.
“Come on, you bastard,” Henry muttered, his grip on the knife whitening his knuckles.
Another thud, harder this time. The lock splintered, and the door flew open, banging against the wall. Dante stepped in, a silhouette against the moonlight, his own blade glinting in his hand.
Henry lunged, tackling him to the floor. They hit the ground hard, a tangle of limbs and steel. I screamed, scrambling for something—anything—to help. My hands closed around a lamp on the nightstand, and I swung it, aiming for Dante’s head.
It connected with a sickening crack, and he grunted, his knife skittering across the floor. Henry pinned him, slamming his fist into Dante’s jaw once, twice. “Stay down!” he roared.
But Dante laughed, blood trickling from his lip. “You think this is over?”
Before Henry could answer, a sharp ring cut through the room—my landline, an old relic I’d never bothered to disconnect. It rang again, insistent, and my stomach dropped. No one had that number. No one but—
Henry glanced at me, his chest heaving. “Answer it.”
I stumbled to the phone, my hands shaking as I lifted it. “Hello?”
A voice—calm, unfamiliar—came through. “Felicia? This is Detective Ramirez. We’ve got a unit outside your building. Saw the lights go out. You okay?”
Relief crashed into me, but it was short-lived. Dante twisted under Henry, grinning like a madman. “Too late,” he rasped, just as the sound of boots thudded up the stairs outside.
The cops were here. But so was he.