He’d dated models, actresses, evenroyaltyfor God’s sake. Women who wore diamonds like a second skin and knew how to work a room better than any politician. And yet… this woman, this petite hermit in a hoodie holding a suspicious furball like it was her bodyguard, had gutted him with a single look, made him break his own rules—and she felt like gravity. Like something his world had been missing until it locked into place. The thought had him slowing when he reached the foyer of the converted brownstone.
“I’m fucked,” he breathed out with a shake of his head, pushing open the door and stepping out.
He descended the steep steps and pulled out his phone with more force than necessary, jabbing at the contact as his driver opened the back door for him. He slid onto the rich leather, the call already ringing before the door shut.
“Good evening, sir,” Andri greeted.
“I want a full dossier on Kiki Reese. Everything. Childhood, medical history, the whole damn file. There’s more to her than the half-assed paragraph I was given,” Nikos bit out, staring blindly out the window as his driver pulled away.
“Yes, sir. You seem… troubled,” Andri said slowly. “Is there anything I should be concerned about?”
“I don’t know. There’s something about her—something…” He blew out a shaky breath. “Just find out everything you can.”
He disconnected the call, his mind racing. It wasn’t until they were a block from the club that he realized he hadn’t told his driver that he had changed his mind.
“Arnold, skip the club,” he saidquietly.
“Very good, sir. Where would you like me to take you?” Arnold replied.
Nikos thought for a moment before he sighed. “The penthouse,” he instructed.
“Yes, sir.”
He tapped his phone against his leg before he lifted it again, tapped a contact in his favorites, and waited. It rang three times before it went to voicemail. He sighed and debated leaving a message before deciding this was too important.
“Hey, Markos, I know you’re in the city. I need to speak with you about something. Can you come by the penthouse when you get a chance?” he requested before he disconnected the call and lowered his phone.
Within seconds, a ping announced an incoming message. He smiled when he read it. He should have known.
Already here. Was in the shower.
He turned his phone over and stared out at the bustling streets, but his mind wasn’t on the colorful lights or the pedestrians. No—his mind was locked on the heart-shaped face of the woman who’d woken something inside him.
“Who are you, Kiki Reese… and what the hell are you running from?”
He knew she had to be hiding something because there was no way a woman like her lived in the shadows for no reason.
Four
The apartment was quiet when he entered. If he hadn’t known his brother was there, he would have thought it was empty. Lately, Markos had seemed to crave the quiet more and more.
Nikos closed the penthouse door with a soft click, the hum of Manhattan fading as he stepped into the quiet. Warm, recessed lighting cast a muted amber glow over dark wood floors and sleek charcoal furnishings. Everything about the space was refined, masculine, and deliberate: walnut-paneled walls, black marble countertops, and steel fixtures that gleamed beneath the low lights like loaded weapons.
This space was constructed with power in mind, a place where control was absolute. And yet… he felt anything but in control.
He shrugged out of his black wool overcoat, hanging it on the hook over the entryway bench before he crossed the open floor plan in measured strides. He didn’t speak—not yet. He moved with the focused silence of a man caught within a storm of turmoil. He crossed to the corner bar inset against a wall of smoked glass. Crystal decanters lined the shelves, each filled with an expensive blend of amber liquor that was chosen as carefully as the paintings on the wall.
He reached for the Oban.
The whiskey sloshed gently into the glass, its sharp, smoky scent rising as he lifted it to his lips. His other hand braced against the marble counter.
Behind him, leather creaked.
Markos sat on the low-slung sofa, one arm draped over the back, the other loosely curled around his own glass. He looked at home in the shadows, all controlled calm and silent calculation. His dark hair was slightly longer than Nikos’s, tousled just enough to look unintentional. He wore tailored black slacks and a charcoal knit sweater that clung to his lean frame, giving him the appearance of a man who could walk off a runway or vanish into a war zone without a change of pace.
Markos was watching him. Of course he was.
“Want another?” Nikos asked without turning.
