“Mr Di’Ablo is expecting you.”
And the button for the twenty-sixth floor was pushed for me by the operator before he stepped out to give me the privacy.
The doors slid shut, engulfing me in the spacious private elevator, dark and gold accents creating a dim, discreet sort of ambiance.
I glanced up at the floor count as my heart seemed to beat heavier in my chest. Frowning, I brought my hand up to my cleavage and rubbed the skin above my thundering organ in attempt to relax.
Turning to the side, I was faced with my face in the mirror. Leaning in, I quickly fixed my hair even though I’d gotten a blow-out after the sit-down with my father, re-adjusted my shirt so the deep V-neck was sitting just right, and re-applied my shimmery frosty lip-gloss.
The doors slid open just as I moved back to the center of the elevator.
I stepped out into the Presidential Suite that covered the entire twenty-sixth floor of The Carlyle.
Met by the dark walls and red carpet of the entry hallway, I took a right into the lounge.
“Hello?” My voice echoed in the grand place.
Glancing to the right, I found a piano gleaming beneath the dim light, its lacquered black body catching what little sun filtered through the tall windows. An untouched glass of scotch sat on its edge, the amber liquid glinting like molten gold. To the left stretched a dining room – mahogany table, velvet chairs, and a chandelier that seemed to drip with crystal tears. Empty. Silent.
“Matteo?” My voice snapped against the walls. He knew I was coming. He had no excuse for this little game. Irritation curled in my stomach, sharp and familiar.
Beyond the dining room, a long hallway stretched ahead, carpet muffling my steps. The air smelled faintly of cologne and cigar smoke, as though he had only just been here. My heels clicked with purpose, defiance.
“Matteo! I don’t have all night!” I called out, each word cutting through the quiet suite like a blade.
I turned right into the first room, ready to tell him exactly how little patience I had left.
My steps faltered.
Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the city stretched beneath me, Manhattan awash in the last light of day. The sky was painted in streaks of fire and ash, the sun sinking behind jagged skyscrapers like it was being swallowed whole. For a moment, I forgot myself, caught in the sheer magnitude of it – the city alive, endless, merciless.
But then I turned, and the spell broke.
On the bed behind me lay a suit jacket, wrinkled and discarded with careless ease. The tie, crumpled across the sheets.
My throat tightened as realization struck.
This wasn’t a guest room, but…
His bedroom.
And I was standing right in the middle of it.
I spun on my thousand-dollar heels, intent on erasing the mistake of stepping foot into his space. My father’s associate or not, I had no business standing inMatteo Di’Ablo’s bedroom.
“Leaving so soon?”
The voice was low, deep enough to vibrate through the walls, through me. A shiver cut down my spine before I could stop it.
My eyes flicked across the room, and there he was.
El Diablostood in the doorway of the ensuite bathroom, like a God. The door behind him half-ajar, steam curling out like smoke from a fire –previously closed or else I would’ve realized and not stepped in. His hair wasstill damp, light brown strands falling careless across his forehead, darker at the roots where the water lingered.
His hand held a white towel low on his hips, his frame filling the entire threshold. A gold cross chain gleamed against his chest, its sacred glint at odds with the violence of the body it adorned.
Six-foot-five of merciless muscle, his broad shoulders nearly brushing the doorframe, his chest carved like stone. Droplets of water clung to his golden-tan skin, catching the sunset in sharp glimmers, as though diamonds had been scattered across him.
My gaze betrayed me, sliding down to his defined eight-pack – abdominal ridges, clean and brutal as if they’d been carved by a blade. A trail of water disappeared into the towel. Lower still –
