Now I’m being delivered into the mafia’s playground, and I’m facing it alone.
Eventually the car rolls into an underground parking garage and comes to a stop. The driver steps out. When I reach for the handle, the door doesn’t budge.
Of course it’s locked from the inside.
A flicker of awareness slides up my spine, but I keep my expression neutral as the door opens from the outside and a suited man nods his head at me.
“Follow me,” he says, stepping back to give me room as I climb out. “We’re taking the elevator to the top floor.”
“How wonderful,” I plaster on a fake smile. “Must be thrilling, riding elevators and pressing buttons all day.”
“Ma’am,” he says, not smiling back. “My job is to make sure you arrive at Mr Viacava’s private residence.”
I follow him into the elevator and glance over my shoulder, noting the stationary shadowy figures dotted around. The Viacavas don’t mess around with protection, that’s for sure.
“Should I prepare myself for a warm, Italian welcomewith limoncello shots and gigantic bowls of pasta?” I fold my arms and prop a hip against the handrail, ignoring my pale reflection in the mirrors. “A girl likes to know what she’s walking into.”
The guy stares straight ahead. “Mr. Viacava prefers private conversations.”
“Right,” I say, recalling the first time I set eyes on him. Just me and him in an elevator smaller than this one. “And if I decide to marry your boss, does that make me your boss too?”
A faint twitch touches the corner of his mouth.
“When you become Mrs. Viacava,” he replies, “I’ll be at your service.”
“Well,” I say coolly, “I’m Tierney Blake. And I don’t see that changing anytime soon.”
At the top floor, the elevator chimes and the doors slide open.
He steps aside, one hand gesturing outward. “Whatever you say.”
More men in suits line the hallway. One knocks before opening a door at the end.
“After you, ma’am.”
When it swings inward, I step inside, aware of the Levi’s and hoodie clinging to me while the apartment screams wealth far beyond the Blake legacy.
My boots strike polished marble tile as I move through the reception hall and into a vast open space where floor-to-ceiling windows frame New York City with a view like something on a postcard.
“How was your flight, Tierney?” a deep voice rumbles from the left, smooth as aged bourbon. “Did you get any sleep?”
My pulse kicks.
Bronx Viacava stands by a glossy obsidian bar, a whiskey tumbler in his hand, his gaze drilling into me.
He stands there in tailored dress pants and a fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the sleek dark hair on top of his head a little unruly in a way that clashes beautifully with the precision of his furniture in the apartment.
Everything around him is dark wood and leather, bare surfaces and glass. It’s masculine without apology and feels more like a lair than a home.
I tell myself his soul is rotten under that fine suit and those good looks. That he’s a man trying to control the shape of my future. Not some Italian fucking god pulled straight from every woman’s darkest fantasy.
I swallow and lock that thought down.
When I don’t answer, he pours a second glass halfway and prowls closer, making my heart pump faster.
“Come on, little hellcat,” he says lightly. “Let’s hear what you’ve got for me.”
He offers me the drink, and I take it because my pulse is sprinting, and I refuse to let him see it.
