Olivero put the car in park and glanced toward me. “You’re disturbingly alive.”
“He loves me.”
“He does. Deeply enough to kill anyone else for less.”
I reached for the door handle, then stopped.
Emily was there.
Sitting in the main hall on one of the low sofas near the entrance, hands clasped too tightly in her lap, looking like she had been debating every second of being there since she arrived. The doorman stood nearby pretending not to watch her while very obviously doing so. She looked up the moment the headlights shifted across the glass, and even through the distance I felt the force of it hit me straight in the chest.
I couldn’t move.
Olivero followed my line of sight and muttered, “I’ll be sleeping in the car, won’t I?”
My hand was already reaching for my wallet, my pulse suddenly loud in my ears.
“If everything goes the way I hope,” I said quietly, not taking my eyes off her, “yes.”
He turned to look at me. “You know what? No. I’m getting a room at the best hotel in town.”
I held out my card without glancing at him. “Fine. Take it. Enjoy yourself.”
He took the card, then snorted under his breath. “Pathetic.”
“Accurate.”
I was already out of the car before he could answer.
CHAPTER 13
EMILY
My heart hammered in my chest as I sat in the lobby rehearsing what I was going to say. On paper it seemed simple. A month ago I would have laughed in anyone's face for suggesting I'd date someone tied to the criminal underworld. And yet here I was.
The strangest thing was that fear was not the feeling driving me. I was scared of what his life meant—the violence, the secrecy—but not of him. That distinction mattered more than I wanted it to.
Then suddenly he was there, standing in front of me, a little breathless, his hand gripping the head of his cane tightly enough to turn his knuckles white, and every good argument, every prepared thought, every draft of the speech I rehearsed in my head vanished completely.
Because looking at him, all I could think about was the way he had looked at me and told me, with painful sincerity, that he loved me.
“You’re here.” His voice came out hoarse, and he seemed to hear it too because he winced slightly. “I mean, obviously you’re here. I?—”
“Can we talk?”
He nodded at once and turned toward the elevator.
As we made our way upstairs, I tried to recover my composure, what I meant to say, but all I could focus on was the clean scent of his cologne and the fine strain of worry etched across his face. In the end, before I could think better of it, I gave him the one piece of the truth that mattered most.
“For what it’s worth,” I said quietly, “the only reason I’m standing in this elevator right now is because I love you too.”
He went completely still.
“Emily,” he breathed, like my name had just become a prayer.
“But love is not enough,” I added quickly.
His face changed slightly. Enough for me to catch the weariness in it, the kind that suggested he already knew that better than I did.
