"Come. I'll show you the building."
The tour that follows is a blur of polished floors and expensive art and people who nod at Drake with the kind of deference usually reserved for royalty. He shows me conference rooms and break areas and a gym that takes up an entire floor. He shows me the security center where men in dark suits monitor feeds from cameras I didn't even know existed. He shows me two floorsnear the middle of the building that sit empty, their windows looking out over the city through a haze of construction dust.
"Future development," he says when I ask what these floors are intended for. Something in his tone makes me think there's more to the story. But he doesn't elaborate, and I don't push.
We end up in what appears to be some kind of common area, a sprawling space with leather couches and a bar stocked with top-shelf booze. There are labels I recognize from my very limited time as a waitress at the Gilded Key Society a few blocks away. And there, scattered across the furniture like kings holding court, are the men I can safely assume are Drake’s brothers-in-crime.
Drake moves a hand to my lower back when I stop at the door feeling a bit overwhelmed by so much testosterone in one room. Okay, I’ll be honest. They scare me a little I mean, come on. They are killers by definition or extension.
Heat from Drake's hand settles my nerves and I follow him toward a man who looks to be a little younger than Drake. He stands and reaches a hand out.
Drake drops his hand and gestures to a man in a three-piece-suit with a bit of drool on the lapel. “Katriana, this is my best friend, Rafael Milano.”
I take his hand and instantly feel warmth instead of death’s coldness. I don’t know what I expected but not warmth or the smell of baby powder.
Rafael, looks down at me with a warm smile that crinkles the corners of dark eyes flecked with silver. He turns my hand and presses a kiss to my knuckles that feels almost courtly, old-fashioned in a way that catches me off guard.
"Katriana." His voice carries hints of tiredness and peace. "Welcome. Drake has told us very little about you, which means you must be important."
I tilt my head at that. “Why is that?”
“Because he wants to keep everything about you to himself.”
I don't know how to respond to that, so I settle for a nod that I hope conveys something other than pure bewilderment.
A massive man with ice-colored eyes and shoulders that strain the seams of his expensive jacket appears at my elbow. He presses a coffee mug into my hands, and when I take a sip, the burn of whiskey hits the back of my throat alongside the bitter richness of espresso.
"Konstantin." He grins at my startled cough. "Kon. And that is how we say good morning in Russia."
I take another sip, longer this time, letting the warmth spread through my chest and settle some of the nerves still jangling beneath my skin. "Thank you. I think I needed that."
"I know you did." His grin widens. "Drake has that effect on people. Trust me. I know. Come to me when you need more."
A man with dark hair and an easy smile appears beside Kon, extending his hand with the practiced charm of someone who makes first impressions for a living. "Massimo Santoro. Legal counsel. If Drake gives you any trouble, come find me. I specialize in impossible situations."
I shake his hand, and his grip is firm but brief. Professional. The kind of handshake that belongs in a boardroom rather than a room full of men who probably have body counts higher than their age.
"Luca Valentina." Another man materializes from somewhere near the bar, dark hair tumbling artfully around a face that belongs in magazines or wanted posters. He gives of white collar crime vibes and you most definitely can take to the bank that man knows where the bodies are buried. He doesn't offer his hand. Instead, he pulls me into a brief hug that smells like expensive cologne and vaguely dangerous. "Welcome to the family, beautiful."
The word family catches in my chest like a splinter.
“Family? Um, I think you all have the wrong impression. I’m just the hired help no matter how I got here. I should be telling you all if you need anything I’m here to help you.”
They all look at each other and then to Drake. Not a soul says anything for a solid seven heartbeats.
It’s Kon who breaks the silence with a chuckle. “Da, malyshka. Da.” he says in Russian and gives me a wink. I feel I might have missed some kind of joke, but Drake reassures me with, “We are all family here.”
“Got it.” I think. I take another long sip of coffee. I wonder how soon is too soon to take Kon up on the additional spike coffee?
A silent nod from across the room draws my attention to the last of them. Rowan Volkov doesn't speak, nor move from his position near the window where he stands with his arms crossed. His light-colored eyes track everything that happens in the room. He simply acknowledges my presence with that single dip of his chin and returns his attention to whatever invisible threat he's monitoring beyond the glass.
"Katriana."
A new voice, feminine and warm, cuts through the testosterone-thick air. I turn to find a woman approaching, her smile bright and genuine in a way that makes something in my chest loosen.
"I'm Sienna." She's pretty, with dark hair swept back from a face that radiates competence and kindness in equal measure. "Rafael's assistant. Well, one of them. Drake mentioned you might need help getting settled, and I wanted to offer my services."
I like her immediately. Despite myself, despite the circumstances, and despite every instinct screaming at me to trust no one in this building full of beautiful predators.
