“This place doesn’t look like anyone’s ever made themselves at home here.” The observation comes out before it can be stopped.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “That obvious?”
“It looks like a hotel suite. Beautiful, but completely impersonal.” A hand waves at the generic modern art on the walls, the lack of photographs, the absolute absence of anythingthat indicates a human being actually lives here. “Do you even sleep here?”
“Sometimes. When I’m not at the office.” He shrugs off his coat, and the gun holster is suddenly very visible against his black shirt. “I’m not here much.”
“Because you’re too busy running your criminal empire?”
The words come out more bitter than intended, and Alessandro’s expression shutters. “I told you I’d explain everything. Let me get the window situation handled at your shop first, then we’ll talk. Deal?”
“Fine. But Alessandro?” He turns back at the door. “Thank you. For coming so fast. For—for being there.”
Something soft crosses his face. “Always, tesoro.”
He leaves to make phone calls, and the guest room becomes my temporary sanctuary. It’s as impersonal as the rest of the penthouse, with neutral colors, expensive linens, a bed big enough for three people. I unpacked my overnight bag with hands that won’t quite stop shaking.
Someone threatened me. Threw a brick through my window. Because of Alessandro.
The smart thing would be to leave. Pack up, get out, maybe even leave Seattle entirely until this blows over.
But when Alessandro looked at me in the shop, when he said he wouldn’t survive something happening to me, every rational thought dissolved like sugar in hot coffee.
Clearly, falling in love with a mobster has destroyed all common sense.
Falling in love. The thought should terrify me more than it does.
The shower in the ensuite bathroom is probably the fanciest thing ever experienced. It has a rainfall head, multiple jets, controls that look like they belong on a spaceship. The hot waterfeels like heaven, washing away the adrenaline and fear and glass dust.
When emerging twenty minutes later in clean jeans and a soft sweater, voices drift from the main room. Alessandro and someone else, a male with a familiar voice.
“—pushing too hard, too fast,” the other voice says. “You need to think strategically—”
“I am thinking strategically, Marco. Strategically keeping Elena alive.”
“By what, moving her into your penthouse? Making her an even bigger target?”
Feet freeze in the hallway. Eavesdropping is wrong. Everyone knows this. But they’re talking about me, which feels like justification enough.
“She’s safer here than at her apartment with no security.” Alessandro sounds tired. “What would you have me do? Leave her there to wait for the next brick? Or worse?”
“I’d have you end this before it gets her killed!” Marco’s voice rises. “You’re not thinking clearly. You’re compromised, and when you’re compromised, people die.”
“Marco—”
“No, you need to hear this. This woman, Elena, she’s made you soft. Sloppy. Three weeks ago you would’ve seen Greco’s move coming. You would’ve had countermeasures in place. But instead you’re playing house and buying flowers and getting shot at Christmas markets because you’re too distracted to—”
“Enough.” The word cracks like a whip. “Elena stays. The discussion is over.”
Silence falls, heavy and tense. Then Marco sighs. “You’re falling in love with her.”
“That’s none of your concern.”
“It’s absolutely my concern when it affects your judgment. Alessandro, listen to me, you cannot protect her and fight this war at the same time. Eventually, you’ll have to choose.”
“Then I choose her.”
The words hang in the air, and something warm and terrifying unfurls in my chest. He chooses me. Over his business, over his men’s advice, over whatever strategic considerations Marco is worried about.
