Running to the cupboards, I toss three packets of instant noodles into my backpack and zip it shut. Gotta go, gotta go. Every second, the risk gets greater of Luca finding me. I’m clattering across my living room, yanking the backpack onto my shoulders, when my phone buzzes in my pocket.

  I freeze, heart pounding. Then lie to myself, just for a second.

  Maybe it’s Tabitha, or one of the other girls. Maybe it’s a spam call.

  I draw my phone out, fingers shaking. Why do I answer? Maybe some tragic, needy part of me wants to hear his voice.

  “Hello, Francine.” It’s deep and warm in my ear. Like we’re old friends catching up, but an old friend wouldn’t call me that.

  I lick my dry lips. “Actually, it’s Frankie.”

  “Frankie,” he repeats, his tone still warm. Like we’re meeting over breakfast. Like he wants to reach through the phone and shake my hand. “You did a hell of a job on my tech, Frankie. Apparently if you hadn’t announced yourself like that, I might never have known you were there.”

  Ah, yeah. There’s the anger I expected. The bite to his words.

  “Sorry about your espresso machine,” I whisper.

  A beat of silence. Then: “You watched what happened.”

  I don’t answer, because I don’t need to. Luca already knows.

  “Do you watch me often, Frankie?” He sounds irritated, but curious too. The mobster wants to figure me out, wants to make sense of me before he swats me like a gnat.

  “Sometimes.” The word comes out all gravelly, so I clear my throat. “I like watching you cook. All I eat is instant noodles.”

  There’s a soft laugh, and all the tiny hairs on my body stand on end. It’s a menacing laugh, and I should not get so flushed and tingly over it.

  “That’s an invasion of my privacy, Frankie.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “I know.”

  What am I supposed to say? I’m a hacker. All I do is invade people’s privacy, and I figured Luca Bianchi of all people would understand that.

  People like us, we deal in secrets. It’s our main currency, but apparently it’s only okay for him to do it, or for it to happen to other people. Men.

  “I’m hanging up now,” I tell him, because I need to end this call. If he knows my number, he probably knows my address too. This conversation is a distraction, a way for him to buy time. “If you don’t cause me any trouble, I won’t hurt you either.”

  It’s not an empty threat. I’ve got months’ worth of material on this guy, and he has zero regard for the law. I could give Luca Bianchi one hell of a headache… if I lived long enough, anyway.

  There’s a slow inhale, then a gust of breath. I inch toward my front door, rummaging in my newly stuffed bag for my key. Why did I throw it in there first, then pile a load of crap on top? I suck at this.

  “It’s a pity,” Luca says quietly, like he’s talking to himself. “I could have used your skills, Frankie. I would have paid well for them, too. But the insult can’t stand.”

  Got it! I jab the key in the lock, twisting it as one of my instant noodles packets slips out of my bag onto the floor. I kick it behind me in a rustle of plastic.

  I always lock myself in when I’m at home, because I live in a fancy building with a bunch of rich men. I don’t trust a single one of them, and I know they all hate me. I scruff up the elevator with my sweatpants and battered sneakers.

  That’s one of the reasons I chose this building. I like pissing them off. It’s funny.

  The door swings open, and I sigh with relief at the empty hallway with its cream walls and potted palms. He should have come here quicker. It’s not like him to make mistakes.

  “Bye, Luca.”

  “Wait—”

  “I’m glad you’re not dead. Don’t trust your cousin Salvatore.” I hang up, bring up the call record, dig a pen out of my bag, and scrawl Luca’s phone number on the back of my hand in messy blue ink. I vaguely recognize it: he’s calling from his actually-personal cell. Didn’t even block the number. Is he being sloppy, or does he want me to have it?

  Doesn’t matter. I toss my phone back into the apartment, slam the door and spin the key in the lock. I can go to ground for a few days. Figure things out.

  Before long, Luca Bianchi will forget all about me.

  If I don’t call him, anyway.

  Four

  Luca

  My hacker lives in one of the most expensive buildings in the city, in a two-bedroom apartment with a large balcony. If I wanted proof that she’s skilled, here it is, because places like this take a lot of money. And if I wanted proof that she’s unhinged, here that is too.

  Because her apartment is wild. Literally wild, like one of those photos of nature reclaiming abandoned buildings. Every surface is covered with clusters of potted plants; everywhere I look are waxy green leaves and trailing vines. There are so many plants in her apartment, the air feels different from the hallway. More humid. Every room smells faintly of damp soil.

  Running and leaving these plants behind must have hurt her. She’s clearly attached, in a strange way. So she’ll be back. I’m counting on it.

  I shouldn’t have called Frankie like that. It gave her too much warning, it let her escape, and I don’t even know why I rushed into it. I was so impatient to speak with her. But it was a long morning, so I’ll forgive myself for the lapse in judgment, because it’s not like she can hide from me forever.

  Within hours of her alarms, I knew every single thing about her. Now I know her name and date of birth—and the fact that at twenty two, she’s too young for me. I know where her estranged parents live. I’ve felt the clothes in her closet and sniffed the food in her fridge.

  Frankie didn’t lie when she told me she lives off instant noodles. It’s disgusting. If I let her live, I’m going to force feed her vegetables.

  Fidgeting with my personal phone, I stand on her balcony with the breeze playing over my cheeks. She hasn’t called yet. Will she call? Probably not, since I threatened to kill her. The lights of the city glow under the stars, and I lean my elbows on the railing with a sigh.

  I’ve been here all day, except for a few meetings in the afternoon. Don’t want to go back to my own place. What’s there for me, anyway? A broken espresso machine and the violation of being hacked; empty rooms and the lingering tang of bleach.

  Sal might try again tonight. Put out another hit. I would if I were him, because his situation is now truly desperate. But even if he does, I won’t be there. No one knows where I am.

  “Come on, Frankie.” I drum my fingers on the railing, jaw tight. I want to nip this situation in the bud, that’s all. It’s not about hearing her raspy voice again.

  Though she called me Luca, not Mr Bianchi. Like she really knows me. And no one ever sees me cooking, so I guess in a way she does.

  The buzzing phone takes a weight off my shoulders. I answer quickly, pressing the handset to my ear, and ignore the rioting sensation behind my rib cage.

  “Good evening, Frankie.”

  There’s a long pause. I wait, breath held.

  Then, quiet as the breeze: “Hi, Luca.”

  All at once, the tension bleeds from my limbs. I roll my stiff neck, gazing down at the city lights, wondering which glowing golden square is hiding my hacker. “I wasn’t sure you’d call.”

  “It’s a burner,” she says quickly, like I’m tracing her location. I probably should, but I’m not. “By the time you get here, I’ll be long gone.”

  I tug at my collar, flicking the top button open. Relaxing at last. “I won’t bother, then.”

  “Oh,” Frankie says. “Um. Good.”

  “Where are you staying?” I’m not expecting an address or anything. She’s a smart girl, and I clearly can’t be trusted, but I’d like some visual details. Something to help me picture her.

  The color of the walls, maybe, or what she dresses in to sleep. The precise shade of her dark hair. The security footage from this building was too grainy, though even those fuzzy images of her were enough to make my throat dry. “Do you have somewhere safe for the night?”

  Frankie snorts. My lips twitch. Yes, it’s a ridiculous question.

  “I’m staying with a friend.”

  Teeth gritted, I tamp down the hot rush of jealousy. “I see.” The pause stretches between us, until I can’t help myself. I need to ask. “A platonic friend?”

  Frankie’s laugh is real now. Brassy and delighted. “You’re jealous,” she crows, and I smirk out at the rooftops. Her amusement is contagious. “If you wanted me to spend the night alone, you shouldn’t have chased me from my apartment, Luca.”

  The smile drops off my face. “I do want you to spend the night alone.”

  “Well, like I said.” She’s more serious now too. “I’m staying with a friend.”

  “Another hacker?” Do they travel in packs? Have underground professional conferences? Is it a man?

  “No,” Frankie murmurs. “You’d like her, though. She deals in information too, but she tricks it out of people in person. Flirts with them until they blab all their secrets.”

  She doesn’t offer any more details, and I don’t ask. Useful or not, I don’t care about Frankie’s honey trap friend. Only the raspy girl on the phone.

  “It is platonic,” she blurts when I don’t say anything more. “It’s not—it’s nothing like that.”

  Relief settles over me, cool and soothing like the first drops of rain. I peer up at the dark clouds gathering, blocking the stars.

  “You should come back here. Water your plants.” How long will they survive with her gone? It would be a shame for her to return to a wasteland. “Maybe I won’t kill you after all.”

  Her soft puff of laughter makes my chest squeeze. “Such a great offer, Luca. Thank you.” You can hear the smile in her voice.

  “You’re welcome,” I tell her. “Think it over.”

  When the line goes dead, I slide the phone back into my pocket. The rain’s coming down faster now, soaking through my shirt and suit jacket, clinging to my hair, but I don’t go back inside. I stand out on the balcony and breathe in the scent of wind and wet stone, and feel the cold moisture seep through to my skin.

  This silence after talking to Frankie, this emptiness in my chest… it feels like loss.

  I need my hacker to call me again.

  * * *

  I do get a call, but not the one I want. It comes through to my family-personal cell a little after ten, and I roll my eyes before answering. I’m stretched out on Frankie’s sofa, a bag of microwave popcorn burning my hip. Trashy, but after a handful, I do see the appeal. “Yes?”

  “Luca,” Sal greets me. “Cousin, where are you tonight? Want to get a drink?”

  He sounds nervous. He should be. More than anything, he wants to keep his distance from me—all of his survival instincts are screaming at him to stay away. But he needs me gone before I get concrete proof of what he’s done, and that means luring me out.

  Sal doesn’t know about Frankie’s warning. Paired with my earlier hunch, that’s confirmation enough for me.

  I flip over the paperback I stole off Frankie’s nightstand to glance at the front again. It’s a fantasy novel, with a mob of orcs and elves and practically nude busty women on the cover. “I’m reading.”

  Sal chuckles. “Uh. Where?”

  “Does it matter?” I turn a yellowed page with my thumb. “It’s a one-man job.”

  “Right.” Sal’s breaths are shaky. This much stress is bad at his age. “So you don’t want a drink? I’m buying.”

  I grin, my expression savage though there’s no one around to see. “There’s a first time for everything, huh?”

  Sal forces a laugh, and you know, I don’t think this is purely about the role. He doesn’t just hate being the cleaner. This guy really hates my guts. My own blood.

  It’s a kick in the teeth. He’s a few years older, but I saved his ass from getting kicked all through growing up. Should’ve let them stamp my slimy cousin into the ground.

  “So you’ll meet me at Vinny’s?”

  I rummage in the popcorn bag. “Tomorrow, maybe.”

  Sal wants me dead by tomorrow, but hey—life is cruel. We can’t always get what we want. For instance, I want a certain hacker girl balanced on my thighs. I want her raspy voice in my ear, begging me to touch her. And I want more of Ola’s perogies, and for everyone to stop fucking calling me. Everyone except Frankie.

  “Sure, maybe,” Sal says, playing it cool because he knows he’s pushing too hard. This guy wants to gather secrets? Please. He’s as subtle as a brick. “I’ll see you at the boss’s in the morning.”

  He hangs up quickly so he’s first. Such a child. I toss the phone onto Frankie’s striped Moroccan rug, then find my place in her book again.

  My hacker reads some smutty stuff, that’s for sure.

  I turn another page, eyebrows raised.

  Five

  Frankie

  Luca Bianchi has made himself at home in my apartment. I don’t know what I expected when I borrowed a laptop to log into my home security system, but it definitely wasn’t the world’s best dressed squatter, striding from room to room in his tailored gray suit.

  I figured Luca might smash up my things. The computers, at the very least.

  Then I figured he’d leave me the rubble there as a warning to stay out of his business.

  Instead, after spending the night on my sofa, Luca’s in my kitchen digging through the cupboards. I don’t have sound so I can’t hear what he’s muttering, but from his jerky movements and the way his lips keep moving, I’m pretty sure he’s cursing me out.

  It’s true, my kitchen is tragic. I never bothered to buy more than a single saucepan and a wooden spoon. A few plates and bowls and forks and shit came with the place, but mostly I eat my noodles out of mugs.

  “He’s still there?”

  A soft voice cuts through the quiet. My friend June places a steaming peppermint tea at my elbow, then settles at the kitchen table beside me. She sips from her own drink, her delicate eyebrows pinched in a frown, staring at Luca on the screen.

  I shrug, my neck stiff from a night on June’s sofa. Her apartment is smaller than mine, all strangely shaped rooms and bright walls and streaming sunlight. Her wrought iron balcony overlooks the arts district.

  It’s a nice place. I’m lucky to stay here, even if there are hardly any plants.

  But watching Luca rummage through my kitchen cupboards is giving me this weird rush of homesickness. And when I turn to June, I can’t help noticing that she and Luca share the same thick, bronze hair; the same smooth, tan skin.

  I always knew June was pretty. But now I get why men fall over themselves to tell her their dirty secrets.

  If Luca Bianchi flashed me his dimples, I’d probably write down all my passwords. And if he flirted with me? Forget it. I’d be putty in his hands.

  “What’s he looking for?” June tilts her head, watching him over the rim of her mug. Out of nowhere, I get the impulse to clap my hand over her eyes and stop her looking, because Luca’s taken off his suit jacket and rolled his white shirt to the elbows. His gray pants hug his toned ass and thighs, and god, he’s perfect. I don’t want anyone else to see the shift of muscles under his clothes.

  “Cooking equipment, probably.” I take a sip of peppermint tea to soothe my tight throat. “I don’t have any.”

  June huffs a laugh, nudging me with her elbow. “I could teach you to cook, you know, Frankie.”

  “I know.” So could the internet. So could the back of food packets. But it just doesn’t interest me—not unless it’s Luca Bianchi doing it. Honestly, he could sit there tying and untying his shoelaces and I’d probably be transfixed, watching his clever fingers and the flex of muscle in his broad shoulders.

  Right now, he’s glaring at my sparse cupboards, his hands propped on his narrow hips. Biting my lip, I pull another burner phone from my pocket. It’s a new one, just in case he tracked last night’s. Somehow, I don’t think he did.

  The number scrawled on the back of my hand nearly washed off in the shower. I went over it this morning in permanent marker.

  The phone rings once before Luca answers, whipping his cell from his pocket and pressing it to his ear. He’s still glaring at my cupboards. “Frankie?”

  “Yeah.” On the screen, his shoulders relax an inch. “Um, hi. Good morning. There are pop tarts on the second shelf if you’re hungry.”

  Luca stiffens again, his body going rigid on the screen, then he wheels around, accusing mossy eyes searching for the camera.

  That’s the thing about plants. They draw the eye. You can fill an apartment with vines and leaves and flowers, and that’s all anyone will see. Never the tiny black lenses peeking between the foliage.

  “You’re watching me again, Frankie.” Luca’s voice is rougher in the morning, but he doesn’t sound mad. He sounds pleased. “Invading my privacy.”

  Hardly. “You’re in my apartment. I’m not even hacking anything, I just logged into my own system.”

  “Did you watch me all night?” Luca presses. He rubs a hand over his jaw absentmindedly as he talks, and I can almost hear the rasp of stubble. What would that feel like under my fingertips? Or chafing against my skin? Does he want me to have watched him?

  “Not all night,” I lie.

  Luca raises an eyebrow, still scanning for the camera. Behind him, the kitchen is a riot of clean dishes left stacked haphazardly on the draining board; wild, rangy plants; and buttery sunshine filtering through the open window.

  “You ate my popcorn. And you read my book.”

  I see the exact moment Luca spots the camera tucked on a shelf between two spider plants. The frown melts from his handsome face, and his smirk… it makes my toes curl.

  “Oh, my,” June murmurs, fanning herself. Shit, I forgot she was here. I spin the laptop screen away from her, shrugging when she snorts and rises to leave.

 

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