Page 2 of Stroke of Luck

Trying not to freak out, I run a hand over my head until I hit a bump that causes me to hiss in pain.

What the hell happened last night?

Looking around the room, I find that it’s simple, but I can tell that everything in here is expensive. The light grey sheets that brush against my bare legs feel soft and silky, telling me it’s a high thread count. Mother hates scratchy sheets and only buys the best, so I’m fairly sure these are at least high grade Egyptian cotton.

Apparently, wherever I’ve ended up, the owner is well off and most likely to get the stamp of approval from my mother and father. It has to be the only reason my cell isn’t ringing off the hook, demanding to know where I am and why I’m not home.

Slipping out of the bed, I walk to the door that’s half open. I can’t hear anyone moving about the house, so of course I decide to snoop around.

If they didn’t want me to look through all their stuff, they shouldn’t have left me unattended.

When I open the door, I find a staircase leading down into another bedroom that’s larger and much more industrial themed. Everything is black, with sharp lines and metal accents… Definitely a man’s room, that’s for sure. I don’t see anything personal left out, like photos or knick-knacks. It’s extremely orderly—a perfectionist.

Deciding that this room is of no interest to me, I head for the door I guess leads to the rest of the house. Once in the hall, I find that it’s actually a balcony of sorts that looks over the main entrance to the house. I can hear voices drifting up from below.

I wander down the hall but stop short when I see a staircase along with an elevator to my right. Who the hell has an elevator in a house?!

My family has money, and are very well off, but our house is nothing like this one. Everything here screams that they have money to burn, and they have extremely expensive taste in art and decorations.

I had planned to scope out the rest of this floor, but now I have to figure out where the hell I am and who the hell with.

Not wanting to give away my presence with the elevator, I pad down the steps on silent feet, then peek around the corner to make sure the coast is clear before I step out into the main hall. There’s an impressive dining room with a gigantic crystal chandelier to my left, but the sound of people is off to the right, so I follow the voices.

The kitchen is a chef’s dream—and my nightmare—with top-of-the-line appliances and plenty of workspace. As I take the space in, I get the feeling that I know someone who would love it, but for the life of me I can’t think of who it is. Shaking my head clear of that nagging feeling, I keep walking until I reach a sturdy pillar railing that keeps you from walking off the edge into the living room. That’s right—into the living room. You have to walk down a level just to get to the beautiful sunken space. The three men below me are locked in an intense conversation, so they don’t notice me at first as I observe them.

Sitting in a large leather chair is one of the most stunning men I’ve ever seen. His back is ramrod straight with one leg crossed over the other as he watches the two men arguing before him. He has on navy dress pants with a white button-down that’s halfway open, showing off his chiseled chest. His black hair is cut short all over but long enough on top to style neatly, his beard cut close and well maintained. There’s not a hair out of place in his physical appearance, and I’m drooling.

“Look, if she doesn’t wake up soon, we have to take her to the hospital,” one of the men snaps, his green eyes bright with determination.

This type of man I know well, the type who’s fun at parties. He has a youthful face, and his hair is tousled in a way that suggests he always runs his hands through it. He has a playful energy about him, one that resonates with my own, and that tells me the two of us would get into lots of trouble if left alone for too long. Compared to the other two men in the room, he’s not as tall or imposing, more of a “kid brother” vibe than an equal.

“Paolo, you were the one who decided to jump into the Chicago River to go get her—why don’t you want to help her now?”

Wait… Could they be talking about me? I fell into the river? Why was I even near the Chicago River? I’m supposed to be leaving for Cornell in a few weeks…

“Giorgio, I explained this already,” Paolo sighs as he tucks his hands into his pants pockets, giving me a better view as he stands there, of his ass. “You saw her at the bar being super friendly with Ash. Othello and Remo both ran into her at the bar. If I’d known she was chummy with the Irish, I never would have given her the time of day. The woman was swearing in Italian… How was I to know she had ties to the O’Shea crew? With everything that happened last night, we need to be careful, especially since one of her girlfriends was friends with the man we took out. For all we know, she could be a snitch in their crew too.”

“It’s not polite to eavesdrop, coniglietto,” a deep voice rumbles behind me. “In this house, someone could get killed for hearing the wrong thing.”

I let out a squeak and jump to the side, tripping over my feet until I land on my ass, staring up at the most terrifyingly handsome man I’ve ever seen. His shoulder-length, slightly wavy, reddish-brown hair hangs around his face as he looks down at me. Piercing brown eyes hold me frozen to my spot on the floor where the shirt I’m wearing has ridden up my legs, just covering my crème-de-la-meow-meow from view. His imposing figure is accentuated by his all-black attire, which fits him just right to show off all his muscles.

Did I somehow land myself in a house of models? No, they have far too dangerous an air to be models…

“Well, look who’s awake,” Paolo says, appearing at the top of the living room stairs.

I gulp as he turns and I see his face for the first time. He has the most beautiful hazel eyes layered with different tones of blues and greens that make me want to paint something in their likeness… if I could ever find colors to match. His tortoiseshell glasses only serve to enhance his features as they rest on his nose, while his hair is swept back in a stylish quaff.

Now this man could absolutely be a model with the brands he’s sporting—it makes me wonder if it was his room I woke up in.

“How are you feeling, firefly? You’ve been asleep for almost the whole day,” he continues, giving me a sly smile. “I know I said not to wait for people to hear you, but this was a little dramatic if you wanted to see me again.”

I frown at him, trying to remember how I know him… or any of these men, for that matter. “I’m sorry… but what are you talking about? Have we met before?”

“Shit!” Giorgio, who stands behind Paolo, bites out. “This is why we should have taken her to the hospital—we broke her.”

“She hit her head is all. I’m sure once we give her some time, her memory will come back,” Paolo says, waving off Giorgio’s concern. “Now let’s see how bad this really is—what’s your name, firefly?”

“Skyler, Skyler Leto,” I answer, relieved that I haven’t forgotten that.