Page 49

Even in this bougie neighborhood, the house is a jewel tucked behind a grand black iron gate with what looks like serious lot size and mature trees.

I’ve never been inside one of these beautiful houses.

Tonight, what should be a treat leaves me feeling small and isolated.

I’m a little surprised by the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, I’ll admit. I thought Luca would want to hide more from prying eyes.

And inside, the polished stone and rough-hewn wooden beams lean toward a more subtle, Minnesota-rich vibe.

I mean, from what I can tell. I live in a crappy apartment with an avocado-colored fridge, so what do I know?

The house oozes intimidation.

Large ornate rugs and dark wood paneling. There are paintings on the walls, the types you’d see in a museum.

Stern-faced angels trumpeting to each other through the heavens. A bowl of ripe and juicy fruit. A woman in a purple gown, fanning herself.

A couple people dressed more modern, none of them smiling.

I wonder if they mean anything to Luca or if some underling just picked out whatever looks good.

Crystal chandeliers scatter the light, gilding everything with a soft diamond glow.

I know there are other people here. More minions, I’m sure.

I hear their shoes squeak on the shiny tile floor in other rooms as they make the rounds. They’re like rats that scurry out of sight just before the owner comes home.

And I don’t blame them for being scarce around their boss.

The man behaves like a forest fire.

Blinding, intense, and terrifying.

That twisted little part of me wants to look at him—take a good, long look and study his every movement—but I’m not that brave.

“Make yourself at home,” he says. He drops his keys on the table in the foyer and loosens his tie.

Oh, okay.

I guess I’ll just try to stop guessing how many people were murdered here.

Still, I slowly walk to the closest room and locate the nearest seat.

I perch on the very edge of a plush sofa that feels ready to swallow me whole if I get too comfortable in this absolute cave of a great room.

At least, I think that’s what it is.

I’m not sure what to call it if it’s this formal. The closest I’ve gotten to this kind of living arrangement is playing Clue with Nonno.

Luca circles the room restlessly, barely noticing me.

If he was anyone else, I’d wonder if it’s nerves, but I don’t think a man like him gets nervous.

Though he’s definitely on edge.

He chucks another log in the fireplace and slams the cover shut before he steps back and stuffs his hands in his pockets.

Then hangs them at his sides.