I turn on him, ready with something sharp and ugly—something about retail therapy not resurrecting sons or soothing panic—but the look in his eyes stops me cold. He doesn't look impatient or mollifying; he looks like a man offering the only move he has left. And beneath it, something else: concern. Real. Unshowy. The kind that doesn't ask permission.
And then there is the small fact that I'm standing here, in front of him, barefoot and only wearing Massimo's shirt. So I swallow whatever was about to come out of my mouth. I do need clothes and shoes. I nod once. Max doesn't say anything else. He shrugs out of his jacket and settles it around my shoulders with careful hands, like I might shatter if he moves too fast. The weight of it grounds me more than I expect.
"Come on," he invites softly.
He walks me back into the antechamber, one hand lightly at my elbow, not guiding, not pushing, just present. He nods to one of the men, who immediately calls the elevator. Two more fall in behind us. Security.
The doors slide open, and we step inside. It's… crowded. Four of us in close quarters. All of them tall. All of them solid. All of them the kind of men magazines build fantasies around. This should be a girl's wet dream, alone in an elevator with three dangerous, beautiful men. Instead, my chest tightens. Because all I can think about is Massimo. Massimo and the kiss.
God—the kiss.
The way it blindsided me. The way it reopened places in me I'd sealed away and labeled survival. The way my body remembered him before my mind could argue. The way it wasn't gentle or careful, but desperate, and angry, and real. Like everything we never said collided at once. I grip Max's jacket tighter around myself. I thought I'd buried that part of me. Locked it away with the rest of the things I couldn't afford to want. But one kiss—one reckless, unforgivable moment—and suddenly I'm aware of my pulse again. Of hunger. Of longing. Of how much it still hurts.
The elevator hums as it descends. No one speaks. The men are statues around me, eyes forward, bodies angled subtly outward like a shield. And all I can do is stand there, surrounded by protection, feeling more exposed than ever. Because the one man I want—the man who woke everything I thought I'd lost—is somewhere far away, walking into danger with my heart clenched in his fist.
The doors open. The noise hits me like a wall. Sound, light, movement, all of it crashing together at once. Laughter, too loud, too sharp. Slot machines screaming in metallic joy. Waitresses weaving through the crowd, voices shrill as they call out drink orders—cocktails, cocktails—like a chant, like an incantation meant to keep the city alive. For a moment, I just… stop. My body hesitates at the threshold like it doesn't know how to exist in this version of reality. The air smells like perfume, alcohol, and electricity. Heat and sugar and desperation wrapped in glitter. Max is at my side instantly. Not touching, but close enough that I feel him, an anchor in the chaos.
"You okay?" he murmurs.
I nod, though I'm not sure it's true. This feels like an out-of-body experience. I haven't been alone in Massimo's penthouse that long. Not really. But it's been long enough to forget this,the pulse of Vegas, the way it never stops moving, never stops demanding attention. The way it swallows people whole and spits them back out smiling.
Someone brushes past me. A shoulder bumps mine. Before I can even react, one of the bodyguards steps in, firm hand to the man's chest, moving him aside with a warning look that needs no words. Not gentle. Not subtle. The man is drunk; he raises his hands in apology, nods at me, mouths,sorry, and stumbles away. The guards tighten their formation around me. I feel curious glances directed at me. Three guards, I must be someone special. Someone important. It hits me so hard, I almost laugh. Not because it's funny, but because it's absurd. I don't know what time it is. I don't even know what day it is.
Which makes me no different from every other tourist wandering this casino, untethered and disoriented, chasing something shiny without knowing why. The thought lands oddly comforting and deeply unsettling all at once.
The lights reflect off polished floors, off sequined dresses and gold watches, off faces flushed with luck or loss. People cheer at tables. Others stare blankly at screens, feeding machines that promise everything and deliver nothing. Life goes on. Here.
Even when mine feels like it's paused mid-breath.
I feel Max's presence next to me. Warm, safe. Reminding me that I'm not alone, even if the man I want to hear from is thousands of miles away, somewhere between danger and silence.
When I stepout of the shower, I almost recognize myself again. Steam clings to the mirrors, softening the sharp edges of my reflection. My hair is damp and clean, my skin warm instead of chilled all the way through. I pull on the clothes I bought, tailored trousers, a soft knit top, shoes, understated but expensive in the way that doesn't beg for attention.
Decent. Normal. Human. And with my hands back. I don't need the stupid wrappings anymore. A couple of band aids do the trick just fine.
I'd expected the boutique in the casino to be all sequins and desperation, Vegas costumes for women trying to become someone else for a night. Instead, it was quiet. Polished. A high-end luxury space that catered just as easily to ballgowns as it did to stockholder-meeting wardrobes. Clothing for women who needed to be taken seriously in rooms full of men who underestimated them. I hadn't known how badly I needed that reminder.
Back in the penthouse, the silence no longer presses quite so hard. I make coffee—strong, grounding—and carry the muginto Massimo's office. The laptop waits where I left it, patient, complicit on the couch.
I sit.
Breathe.
I don't think I have the guts yet to dig further into Daddy's shit. I'm still digesting my last find. Not even the thought of Amauri can get me to open those folders. I call myself a coward and accept it. At least for the moment.
I stare at my emails: Marianne.
Now that I have decent clothes, I can meet her, but meeting her here would be a mistake. Too exposed. Too much Massimo in the walls. The city isn't an option either. I don't want to be alone out there, not yet.
A thought enters my mind: the boutique.
Neutral ground. Public enough to discourage theatrics. Private enough, with the right appointment, to talk. And Max will take me there whenever I ask, no explanations required. The plan clicks into place cleanly, and with it comes a small, fierce spark of control. I open my email and start typing.
Marianne,
I'm available today. If you're still willing to meet, there's a boutique at the Sovereign casino I trust. It's private.
Let me know what time works for you.
