before the beginning of Death Trial Part II, there's a knock outside my apartment.

As soon as I swing the door open I realize that I'm an idiot, and before I can fully comprehend what's going on, a large hand claps over my mouth and shoves me back inside, slamming the door shut and throwing me against it.

I'm shocked and then I start struggling, trying to scratch and claw and bite and kick but the heavy man in front of me isn't the least bit affected. He chuckles lightly, and the panic starts to build as I look at him, as I wonder what the fuck is happening, what he's going to do to me.

His hair is thinning; grey and patchy, and his face is older and snarling, stubbly and poorly-shaven, and there is a bright gold watch on his wrist; shiny, fat rings on his fingers. The more I struggle against his iron grip, the more amused he seems, and his teeth are yellowed and crooked and damn it I am scared shitless.

"It's okay, cara mia, relax. We just need to have a small talk, that's all." His accent is unmistakable. He brings his face closer and I recoil against the wall, trying and failing to kick him in the shin.

Letting out an annoyed sigh, he rolls his eyes and pulls something out from his pocket, and before I can even think there's a knife against my throat.

It's enough for me to stop thrashing and stay still, my breaths heaving against my chest. "Shh," he hushes, "Yes, good girl."

I gulp, and the metal is cold against my skin and I can feel its edge, sharp and warning. Then he steps back and just keeps the knife where it is, and it's the only thing touching me, and the only relief is that his thick breath isn't hot against my face anymore.

"What the hell do you want?" I choke out, my breath a strangled whisper. All I get is a laugh, and a chilling, slimy grin.

"Tesoro," he begins, and I try not to panic as he brings a finger up to stroke my cheek. "I just wanna talk a little bit."

Swallowing, I nearly gag at the burning smell of stale cigarettes. "Get the fuck out of my apartment," I grit out, not moving an inch for fear of him slitting my throat.

All he does is smile. "Tsk, tsk, stellina. No need to get so upset." Taking his time, he studies me, and a shiver goes down my back as he rakes his eyes over me, top to bottom, lingering. I feel a sting pricking behind my eyes, the dry rawness of my throat. "Aren't you a pretty one." A chuckle. "No wonder Nero has been keeping you all to himself."

Hearing his name sends all kinds of alarm through me, and all I can think about is the knife at my throat, about what my blood would look like against the tile if I screamed. The gears whiz through my head, trying to figure out what and why and who and how and shit shit shit I am going to die.

"What do you want?" I close my eyes because it's easier than watching the amusement dancing across his face.

"What's the rush, baby?" His voice is low and grating, and it's clear he's smoked one too many Marlboros. "I thought we could get to know each other first."

My eyes snap open because I feel him press closer, and all I can do is stare as he brings his face inches from mine, smiling. "What's your name again, sweetheart?" I press my head as far into the door as possible, keeping all the space I can between us. He just moves closer. "Margaret?" He shakes his head, trying to figure it out. "Rachel? No, no."

I gulp, and he is so close that his nose is almost touching me. "Rosalyn. That's right. Rose. Rosa. Pretty like a flower, yes?"

Fuck fuck fuck kill me now. There is nothing I can do except stare, hoping that something will give. I cringe as his finger traces the hem of my shirt, recoiling as he catches the skin just above the waist of my jeans.

"Please, leave me alone. I promise that whatever it is, I didn't do it, I swear! Please." It's just a strangled plea but he looks sympathetic, for the briefest of seconds.

"Okay, okay, let's make this quick, rosa mia. I'll cut to the chase, hm?" Backing away ever so slightly, he's starting to look bored, and I remind myself to breathe. "I know that you have some... information, no?"

There's only one thing he can be talking about, but I stay silent.

"I know in the past you were told to keep quiet, but I'm here to make sure, rosa. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

I know it's my turn, but I just stare at him. The part of me that isn't in full on panic mode is trying to figure it all out. Who is this man? How does he know Nero, how does he know me? Whose side is he on? Nero's? The others'? What does he want me to say?

Rolling his eyes, I feel the blade press a little harder into my neck, and I can't prevent the stray tear that drips down my face. It's my body officially deciding that it's terrified.

"Baby, there's no need to cry." He tilts his head to the side, concerned, except when I look into his eyes there is nothing—just black. "Tell me again that you will not tell anyone anything. And then, maybe, I won't have to use this knife on your soft little throat."

I gulp, nodding as much as I possibly can without being sliced open by the blade. "I haven't told anyone, I swear! I won't."

He doesn't look convinced, and I can feel the knife against my skin, not moving, just digging. "I won't, I won't, I won't!" I hate myself for being so hysterical, for breaking down like this. But I have had a lifetime's worth of the Italian mafia and there is simply no more I can take.

I think he's satisfied. I think I managed to get him to believe me. I think I'm off the hook. But just as he backs away and loosens the slack, just I stumble away from him and he lets me go and he looks like he's about to leave, he says, "I am not nice like that bastard next door, cara mia." There is something dangerous, volatile, in his voice. "If I hear so much as a tiny little peep from that mouth of yours, rosa, I will be back, and I will find somewhere soft in that tight body besides your throat to put my knife into, va bene?"

I just nod, numbly, sick to my stomach, and he winks and shuts the door, and all I can manage to do before I collapse in a heap of tears on the floor is to bolt the door with everything in me.

•§•

I hope to God he's gone, and I can feel the whisper of the blade against my neck, his breath hot and sour on my face. There is nothing I am capable of besides sitting on my cold floor, replaying every vivid, horrifying detail.

Except, I hear sounds outside my door and I realize that this is not over. Fuck fuck fuck.

I'm too curious for my own good. I can't help it that my ear pricks at the sounds of feet, of voices, in the hall. It takes me all of two seconds to realize what is happening. First, someone knocks loudly outside the apartment right beside mine.

The door opens.

A pause.

"Marco? What the fuck are you doing here?" It's Nero, unmistakable, and the voice that replies, now familiar, makes me feel cold all over.

"Nero, amico." He sounds smug. "Guess who I just met." And then all I hear is a quick, smooth exchange of angry Italian. Nero sounds confused, agitated, livid. The more Marco says, the angrier Nero gets, and my face is so red, my heart racing so fast in my chest. I gasp because I hear the thud of flesh on flesh, and it's like that very first night, except I am somehow more scared now.

Marco keeps trying to talk, to explain or something, but I can hear the movement behind my door, and I crawl away to the living room because the pounding and yelling is too much and I thought this was all over a long time ago, months ago, but it is not. Shit, it is not.

I wait it out, cringing, stunned, until it all starts to fade and I hear footsteps receding and I bet one of my other neighbors must have heard, must have called the cops.

But, like always, the only people who live on this floor are me and Nero. I know that I'm all alone.

I consider calling the police, calling Caleb, calling my dad or Daniel or somebody because I am not okay, this is not okay, but then everything goes quiet. The only sound is my heavy breathing, a small whimper, as my eyes stay glued to the door.

And then I hear him.

"Dolcezza." It's Nero, and his voice is so low and so quiet and so full of so many things I can't even begin to comprehend.

He sounds concerned. Worried.

"Are you okay, Rosalyn?" I close my eyes, and I can see him, beat up and out of breath, standing right there in the hallway.

I don't say anything. I have nothing to say to him.

"Rosalina, please." He actually sounds like he cares. I can hear it and feel it as he leans against the other side of my door, breathing heavily, waiting.

Nothing.

"Tell me that he didn't hurt you, Rosalyn."

I close my eyes and every part of me hurts because his voice is so heavy and hoarse, insistent. Like he needs to be sure, like he cares. Like hell he cares.

I want to tell him to go away, but then he would know that I'm technically fine. So I don't say anything. I don't move, I don't make any noise. He doesn't get to know whether or not I'm okay, if I'm alive or if his friend or whoever slit my throat and left me to bleed out on the floor.

I lay down on the carpet like I did that other time when Caleb was here and I remember that, except it is impossibly far away.

And I lay there, and for a while he stays outside my door, and I'm a little impressed by his persistence. But eventually, the sound of his voice fades away, and it's just me and the silence of my apartment. I feel so impossibly alone.

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