Page 105 of The Cost of Silence

Heat curls low in my belly. “Looking forward to it.”

He straightens, finishes knotting his tie, and when he glances back at me from the doorway, I feel it again, that stupid, dangerous tug in my chest. “Lock the bedroom door if you nap,” he says.

“Yes, Dad.”

His eyes darken with something that is absolutely not paternal. “Don’t call me that.”

I laugh. “Okay, sir.”

His hand flexes on the doorframe. “Careful, Belle. I still owe you a punishment.”

Then he’s gone.

Leaving me alone in his bed with warm sheets, a racing pulse, and the distinct thought that I’m in far, far too deep.

By late morning,the penthouse is quiet in that peaceful, holiday way. The tree glows in the corner. The wreath, my enormous, “fire hazard” wreath, is hanging triumphantly on the front door. It makes me inappropriately happy.

I make coffee. Work a little, laptop open at the island as I cross-reference old notes with the breadcrumbs Nico and Adi gave me. Half the time, my mind drifts back to last night, to the way Nico looked standing in the kitchen with my mom, sleeves rolled up, doing exactly what she told him to, like some kind of grumpy, tattooed sous-chef.

My phone buzzes with a message from Casey in LA, Thanksgiving selfies, turkey disasters, her girlfriend in a burnt-pie crime scene. I send back a photo of the tree (carefully angled to avoid any incriminating mobster décor) and a vague “staying with a friend, long story” text.

A knock sounds at the door around noon. Three firm, evenly spaced raps.

“Who is it?” I call because I’m learning.

“Delivery. There’s a guy here that says he needs a signature from you.”

The voice is male. One of Nico’s men, the youngest member of the security team, who’s probably only nineteen or twenty.

Every instinct whispers no. This is wrong.

I step closer, keeping the door shut. “I didn’t order anything.”

“Complimentary gift from the building management,” a new voice replies. “Holiday gesture.”

Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.My heart rate spikes. “I’m good, thanks. Just send it back.”

Silence.

Then, a muttered curse and the sound of footsteps moving away down the hall.Where the hell is Rossi?

I back up, throat tight. After a second, I grab my phone with shaking fingers and hit Nico’s contact.

He answers on the second ring. “Belle?”

“There was someone at the door,” I blurt.

Instant tension wires into his voice. “Who?”

“He said he was from building management. I didn’t open it. He left.”

“Good.” There’s movement, a muffled voice in the background. “I’m calling Rossi. He’ll check the cameras and the floor. You did right. Do not open that door for anyone. I mean it.”

“I won’t,” I say. My palm is sweaty against the phone. “Nico?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m okay. Just… rattled.”