Page 33 of Bastard Prince
By the time Rock and I had parked in the underground lot and made our way up to the thirtieth floor, I was feeling like a goddamn Zen master or some shit.
Calm as fuck.
At least, I was until I walked into my apartment.
The place was completely trashed, furniture overturned, the cushions slashed and their stuffing tossed around the room like confetti. The kitchen cabinets were opened, and the dishes were smashed on the floor, glass and ceramic crunching under my shoes as I walked through the space, assessing the damage.
The bedroom was even worse, with the drawers and closet emptied, our things strewn about the space and looking like a tornado had blown through. Rock came through the bedroom door as I stood near the bed, the flipped mattress and torn pillows looking sad and depressing in what used to be my favorite room in the apartment.
“What the actual fuck, Enzo?”
Clenching my fist, I didn’t respond. What was there to say? Someone had the audacity to enter my home and ruin all my stuff.
And that someone obviously had a death wish.
But the more I looked around, the more I realized that wasn’t entirely accurate. Because whoever it was that had the balls to come in here hadn’t ruinedmystuff at all.
But they sure as fuck had ruined Francesca’s.
The floor of the bedroom was covered in clothing, but none of my suits or shirts were there. Instead, I spotted all of my wife’s sweater sets, the pastel cotton torn and shredded, scattered like garbage in every corner of the room. Her plain black pants were tossed haphazardly right next to her simple white panties, looking like something out of a true crime documentary, and it gave me the fuckin’ creeps.
This was another deliberate attack against her, a blatant move letting us know that they could get to her anywhere they wanted, anytime they wanted.
And I was fuckin’ pissed about it.
Before I had a chance to respond to Rock, a knock at the door had me taking a deep breath. My hand went to the gun at my back as Rock checked the peephole.
“It’s that front desk schmuck,” he said loudly, swinging the door open on the skinny guy who worked in my building. His face was pale, and he swallowed hard, his gaze darting between Rock and me, probably wondering which one of us was gonna hit him first.
“Mr. Argenti,” he said, his voice surprisingly steady for someone who was visibly shaking.
“You wanna tell me how someone was able to get into my apartment, Arnie?” I growled, narrowing my eyes at him and causing him to take a step backward into the hall.
“Well, you see, Mr. Argenti,” he stammered, licking his lips. “It appears he entered from the parking garage. Our cameras show him waiting outside the door for someone to exit, then darting in before the door closed and latched.”
I tensed, the muscles in my shoulders tight as I fought the urge to rage, wanting nothing more in that moment than to slam my fist into something over and over until the flames of my anger were nothing but smoldering embers.
Noticing that I wasn’t responding, Rock took over.
“Cameras?” he asked. “You got this fuck on camera?”
“Yes. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the footage. The police are on their way, and—”
“No cops,” I said, startling Arnold into stillness.
“But, sir. It’s standard protocol to involve the police. Don’t you want them to get your things back for you?”
It occurred to me then that Arnold was under the mistaken impression that this was a robbery. A standard smash and grab done by someone who was looking to pawn whatever they could get their hands on. He had no idea that the person or people who had done this hadn’t taken a goddamn thing.
Except for the last shred of my fuckin’ patience.
“No cops, Arnie,” I repeated, my tone brokering no argument. “Now, let me see those fuckin’ tapes.”
Arnold led us down to the main level and into a back security room, a small, empty space lined with a bank of tiny monitors. Sitting at the desk, he brought up the footage he was looking for, the grainy video looking more green than gray and showing the door in the parking garage that I had used to come and go from the apartment for years.
“This is the man we think broke into your unit, Mr. Argenti,” Arnold said, fast forwarding the video until it got to the section he was looking for. There on the screen was a man, of average height and build, looking like every other guy you’d pass on the street. He was older than I was, but I couldn’t say by how much, and the only distinctive feature about him was a dark mustache.
I watched as he approached the door, leaning against the wall and checking his phone, attempting to look casual as he waited. The moment someone exited the building, he pounced, sliding his way inside and heading straight for the elevator.
