"You ran." The corner of his mouth shifts. Not quite a smile. "Smart."
I tighten my grip on my bag strap. "Whatever you want, the answer is no."
"You don't know what I want."
"You're a Moretti standing in my stairwell soon after one of your men died in my trauma bay." I hold his gaze because looking away first is not something I'm willing to do. Not with him. Not ever. "I have a pretty good idea."
His expression gives nothing.
He pushes off the wall and straightens to his full height, and okay, that's just biologically unreasonable. He's got at least six inches on me and he uses every single one of them. Not moving toward me. Just standing there — tall and broad, taking up space I didn't offer him.
The beast in the nice suit, my brain supplies unhelpfully.
Shut up, I tell my brain.
"There aremen outside this hospital who are not mine," he says. Even. Factual. Like he's reading from a report. "They'vebeen en route for the last twenty minutes. They know which exit you use. They know your building." A pause. "They know about the drive."
The floor tilts.
"You knew they were coming," I say slowly. "That's why you're here. You got here first."
Something close to satisfaction flickers across his face. "I got here ten minutes ago. You took longer than I expected to lose your father's man."
I keep my face blank. Years of practice.
His eyes say he knows anyway.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do." He takes one step closer. Just one. Enough to make his point without touching me.
He smells like whiskey and dark amber cologne, expensive and warm, with skin and heat underneath that my body has no business responding to and is responding to anyway. Full mutiny. Zero consultation with my brain.
He smells like a decision I'm not supposed to make.
"And in about thirty seconds, the men your father sent are going to come through that door"—he nods at the landing above me—"and your options get significantly worse."
"And your option is better?"
"My option keeps you alive."
"How generous." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "And what do you get?"
The corner of his mouth tilts. "The drive."
Of course.
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
"Then we'll have this conversation with an audience." He doesn't move. Doesn't threaten. Just waits with the patience of a man who already knows how this ends.
I hate him.
I hate that he's right.
I hate that he smells like that, looks like that, and is currently the most viable option I have, which says truly terrible things about my morning.
"If you touch me?—"
