Raffaele slides in beside me. The door closes with a solid thunk.
The city starts to move past the tinted windows.
I watch the streets blur, trying to process the last hour. The violence. The blood. The way he saidunder my protectionlike it was fact.
My mind keeps circling back to the moment before the knock. His hand on my breast. The heat of his skin. And then the violence. The casual brutality of a man who knows exactly how to hurt people and doesn’t hesitate to do it.
These two things should not coexist. The lover and the killer. The caress and the blood.
But they do. In him, they do.
I’m so caught up in these thoughts that it takes me some time to notice.
“This isn’t the way to my apartment.”
“No.”
“Where are we going?”
“My penthouse.”
I turn to face him. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He’s still looking straight ahead.
“I’m not going to your penthouse.”
“You are.”
“You can’t just decide?—”
“After tonight? Nico knows where you live. His men know your face. They know you matter to me—or at least, they’ll assume you do after what just happened.” Finally, he turns. “You think they won’t come back?”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Can you?” His eyes drop to my hands. Still trembling. “You were backed against a wall when I walked in. No weapon. No way out. If I’d been five minutes later?—”
He’s echoing my exact thought from earlier, but I won’t let him win.
“You weren’t.”
“This time.” He looks away again. “You’re staying where I can keep you safe.”
“I didn’t agree to this.”
“I don’t recall asking.”
I keep my mouth shut and my gaze trained on the window for the rest of the drive.
The elevator to his penthouse is all glass and chrome.
Each wall is a mirror, reflecting us into infinity. Me in my red dress, him in his red-stained shirt, the two of us standing in a box of light ascending through the dark.
He stands too close.
I step to the side.
He follows, closing the gap.
