I’m halfway down the hallway with the stolen burner when I hear a noise.
What is that? It’s not a doorbell, and I’m pretty sure it’s not a phone either. It sounds . . . I’m not even sure how to describe it, maybe like a metal door opening?
I stop so fast my bare feet squeak against the polished wood.
A second later, the security panel near the stairwell flashes once. A red blink that makes my stomach tighten.
Shit.
Somehow, I know he’s coming . . .
Then I hear him.
Well, I hear heavy steps, most likely from boots. But I’m sure it’s Lorenzo.
My pulse spikes because my body is stupid. I’m going to need to do something about my reactions to him.
As if he can hear my inner ramblings, Lorenzo appears at the end of the hall.
His phone is pressed to his ear, voice carrying low and sharp. “Sure.” He strolls toward the stairs without looking at me. “I’ll handle it. I’d hate for you to strain yourself by doing your job.”
He pauses at the top of the staircase, eyes flicking down to the foyer. There’s a moment of silence. I wait for him to do something, but no words come, only his lips curving up.
“Yeah,” he drawls into the phone, fingers tightening around the railing. “I’m aware it’s a problem. I’m also aware problems can stop existing.” He listens again, jaw ticking. Then, almost like the world stops spinning on its axis, a strange laugh escapes his mouth.
It’s quiet and ugly and makes a chill run down my spine.
“Don’t worry,” he adds, voice smooth. “I won’t leave a mess. I know how much you hate a mess.”
My stomach flips. I start down the hall without thinking. An idiot moth to a flame . . .
I deserve to be burned.
Lorenzo’s gaze snaps up and locks on me instantly.
The phone stays at his ear, but his attention changes, sharpens.
“Mmm,” he hums, eyes never leaving mine. “I’ll call you back.”
He ends the call and pockets the phone.
I stand frozen in time, waiting for him to ask me why I’m here, but he doesn’t.
His mouth twitches. He looks amused.Glad I’m here to entertain him.
He starts down the stairs, one hand sliding along the banister.
“Who were you talking to?” I ask, stopping only a few feet away from him.
Lorenzo’s gaze drifts past me, then back. “Business.” He adjusts his watch.
“That’s not an answer,” I push, stepping closer. “That’s a word people use when they don’t want to tell you the truth.”
“Not true.”
“Whatever . . . I get it. Whatever you’re talking about, I’m sure it’s a crime.”
A faint smile cuts across his mouth, sharp and quick. “Crime is such an ugly word.” He clicks the clasp into place. “I prefer problem-solving.”
