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The cut on her lip was small but it filled him with fury. He took a pull of the chill night air, forced his voice steady.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
She exhaled a long shuddering breath, then nodded.
He looked around. Whatever had happened, it was a bad idea for him to be standing on the street with Primo Fiore’s sister.
“We need to get off the street.” He tipped his head at the building, forcing himself not to take her hand, lead her toward the safety of his apartment. “Let’s go upstairs.”
She only hesitated for a split second. “Okay.”
They crossed the lobby and stepped into the elevator. Damian had never been more relieved that Harvey and Mrs. Weaver were nowhere to be seen. They rode to the top floor in silence. When the door opened he held out his arm, waiting for her to step across the threshold.
He thought she might hesitate, realize this was the point of no return. Instead she stepped off the elevator with assurance. He couldn’t help admiring her. The decision to call him couldn’t have been easy, but now that she’d made it she seemed intent on seeing it through.
He opened the door and followed her into the apartment.
“First things first,” he said, heading for the bar.
She walked to the windows, looked out over the city as he poured whiskey into a glass. He crossed the room slowly, not wanting to startle her. He stopped a couple feet away, not daring himself to get too close. The feel of her velvety face in his hands had haunted him after her visit to his office. He didn’t trust himself to think clearly if he got close. He was already teetering dangerously near the edge, pushed close to rage by the knowledge that someone had put their hands on her again.
“Drink this.”
She turned around, took the glass, and downed in it one swallow. “Thank you.”
He took the empty glass from her hand and headed for the kitchen. “I’m going to get you some ice for that lip.”I will kill the motherfucker who did that to you. I will take him apart piece by piece.“Then you can tell me what happened.”
He returned a minute later with an ice pack wrapped in a clean dishtowel. “Please, sit,” he said, gesturing to the couch. “Make yourself comfortable.”
She lowered herself to the couch, reached for the ice pack in his outstretched hand. “Thank you.”
She winced as she touched the ice to her lip. He took a seat on one of the chairs next to the couch, gave her a minute to let the ice rest before speaking.
“Can you tell me what happened?” he asked.
She lifted the ice pack from her lip, stared down at it in her hands. “I asked him,” she said. “I asked him about the fire.”
“He admitted doing it?”
“More or less.” She shook her head. “I’m so, so stupid.”
“I haven’t known you long,” he said, “but I can say with certainty that stupid is not a word I would use to describe you.”
Beautiful. Strong. Brave.
She turned the ice pack over in her hands. “It’s not like I haven’t known about the business,” she said softly.
“How much?” He didn’t believe she was cut from the same cloth as her brother, but he needed to hear her say it. “How much did you know?”
“I knew it was illegal.” She met his gaze. “I knew they pushed drugs and beat people up and ran a bookmaking operation.”
“That’s it?”
She drew in a breath. “I think I knew there was more, especially after Malcolm joined, but I made a point to stay out of it. To stay blind,” she finished bitterly.
“We all do what we must to survive,” he said.
She nodded, a spark of kinship in her eyes, like she knew they were one and the same.
