Rain in Genoa feels personal. It doesn't just fall. It settles into your skin, slips into your shoes like it wants to follow you home.
By the time my shift at Palazzo D'Argento ended, the sky had turned the color of wet slate. The last guest I checked in smelled like expensive cologne and impatience. The marble lobby glowed under chandeliers while the storm outside blurred the world into streaks of silver.
I clocked out at five in the morning.
The city was quiet in a way that felt almost staged. No tourists. No traffic. Just the distant hum of the port and the steady rhythm of rain.
The long route home would take twenty minutes.
The alley would take ten.
I was tired enough to gamble on ten.
My heels echoed against stone as I turned into the narrow passage between buildings. The walls leaned close, old and damp, with windows shuttered tight. Water trickled down in thin streams, catching light from a flickering streetlamp at the far end.
I was halfway through when I saw him.
At first, I thought it was garbage someone had dumped in the rain.
Then lightning cracked across the sky, and the shape shifted.
A man.
Lying on his side in the middle of the alley.
I stopped walking.
My pulse climbed instantly, sharp and alert. Every instinct told me to turn around.
Then I saw the blood.
It pooled beneath him, diluted by rain but unmistakable. Dark. Spreading.
"Damn it," I muttered under my breath.
I approached carefully, keeping distance. If this was a setup, I needed to see it before it saw me.
He didn't move.
His coat was expensive; tailored, dark wool now soaked through. His shoes were polished leather, not the kind worn by someone sleeping in alleys. His hair, dark and thick, clung to his forehead.
He looked wrong in this setting. Out of place.
"Perfect," I whispered, "This is how horror movies start."
I crouched, but not close enough to be grabbed.
"Hey, can you hear me?"
No response.
His breathing was uneven. Shallow.
I reached for my phone, "I'm calling the police."
His hand snapped around my wrist.
I sucked in a breath.
The strength in his grip didn't match the amount of blood on the ground. His fingers tightened just enough to stop me.
"Don't."
His voice wasn't loud. It was steady. Controlled.
"But you're bleeding," I said, trying to pull back, "You need help."
His eyes opened slowly.
Dark. Clear. Completely aware.
"I said don't call the police."
Not ambulance.
Police.
That choice wasn't accidental.
I studied him more carefully now.
There was no panic in his expression. No fear. Just calculation.
"Someone stabbed you. You're in trouble," I said quietly.
He didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
Rain soaked through my blazer. My hair stuck to my neck. I should have stood up. Walked away. Called emergency services from a safe distance.
Instead, I heard myself ask, "Can you stand?"
His gaze flickered briefly, like he hadn't expected that question.
"With help."
I hesitated.
This was a bad idea, but leaving him here felt worse.
"Fine," I said, "I'll help you. But understand something."
His eyes lifted to mine again.
"I'm doing this because you're injured. That's it."
A pause.
Then a slight nod.
"Understood."
Getting him upright was harder than I expected. He leaned into me, solid and heavy, one arm braced around my shoulders. Even weakened, there was something restrained about him. Controlled.
He wasn't clinging.
He was conserving energy.
We moved slowly out of the alley.
The rain masked everything. Footsteps, breathing, the fact that I was dragging a bleeding stranger toward my apartment building at five in the morning.
I didn't speak.
Neither did he.
My apartment was small. One bedroom, narrow kitchen, living room that tried to pretend it was spacious. Definitely not designed for mysterious men with wounds that suggested organized violence.
I sat him down on a chair and grabbed my first-aid kit.
"You're lucky," I murmured, carefully pushing his coat aside to examine the damage, "It didn't hit anything vital. I don't think it's too deep, but you should still see a doctor. Just to be sure."
"You're certain?"
"I wouldn't tell you that if I wasn't."
He didn't argue after that. He just watched me.
His gaze followed every movement of my hands as I cleaned the blood from his skin. His expression stayed composed, but there was something steady in the way he looked at me. Focused and intent, that's the words for it, as if I were the one being examined.
"You don't look surprised," he said.
"I work night shifts at Palazzo D'Argento. Drunk guests, fights, emergencies. You learn to stay calm."
Recognition flickered in his eyes at the hotel name.
Interesting.
"Hotel receptionist," I added.
"You're steady for one."
"That's not an insult, is it?"
A faint shift at the corner of his mouth, "No."
I finished bandaging him and stepped back.
"You should still see a doctor."
"I will."
"You're very confident for someone who just collapsed in an alley."
His gaze held mine, "You brought me here."
The way he said it made it sound deliberate. Like I had made a choice that mattered.
Before I could respond, his body swayed. His hand slipped from the edge of the table.
And he dropped.
"Hey!!!"
I caught him as best as I could and guided him to the couch.
He'd fainted.
I stood there for a moment, staring at him.
This was the part where rational people called the authorities.
My phone was in my hand again before I realized it. If I dialed now, it would still make sense. But instead, I locked the screen and set it down.
I dragged a chair across the room and sat opposite him.
If he woke up violent, I needed to see it coming. I wasn't reckless. I was prepared.
The rain softened outside. The sky slowly lightened.
At some point near sunrise, he stirred. His eyes opened sharply, instantly focused. He scanned the room in seconds.
"Where are we?" he asked.
"My apartment."
He sat up carefully, one hand pressing lightly against his side, "Address?"
Straight to business.
I gave it to him.
"May I use your phone?"
I handed it over.
He dialed from memory.
"It's me," he said when someone answered, "Genoa. Via—"
He glanced at me.
I repeated the address.
"Ten minutes."
He ended the call and returned the phone.
"Someone will pick me up."
Of course.
Silence settled between us.
I went to the kitchen and came back with a bowl.
"Figured you need something warm," I said.
He looked at it, then at me.
"You stayed," he said.
"I didn't trust you enough to leave."
That almost amused him, "You're cautious."
"I prefer alive."
He took the spoon.
Our fingers brushed briefly. His hand was warmer now, steadier.
"What's your name?" he asked.
I met his gaze.
"That's not important."
"It is."
"You don't know me," I said evenly, "And I don't know you. Let's keep it that way."
He studied me for a long moment, then he inclined his head slightly, "As you wish."
But something in his expression shifted interestingly.
Ten minutes later, a black car stopped outside.
He stood slowly, adjusted his coat as if he hadn't been bleeding on my couch an hour ago, and walked toward the door.
Before stepping out, he looked at me again.
"Thank you," he said.
And then he was gone.
I closed the door.
Locked it.
Stood there for a full minute staring at nothing.
I told myself it was over.
Just a strange night.
Just bad timing.
I didn't know his name.
I didn't want to.
But somewhere deep down, I had the unsettling feeling that the man who walked out of my apartment wasn't the type to disappear quietly.
And I had a feeling this wasn't the last time I'd see him.