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“Diego is quiet,” she says instead. “Loyal. Protective.”
I wait, but she says nothing further. “That’s it?”
She shrugs. “I said he’s quiet, which means he doesn’t talk much. I don’t know him very well.”
“Girlfriends,” I prompt. “Hobbies.”
“He had a girlfriend years ago, but then her father arranged her marriage, and to my knowledge, she and Diego ended. I don't know anything about what he does in his spare time.”
I nod.
“I do know that he never wants to get married.” She stares at me for a beat. “Might be the smartest thing I’ve ever heard.” With that, she stands and leaves, not offering me the courtesy of saying goodbye.
* * *
The elevatorto the top floor of Lincoln Tower is quicker than I expected, and I stand to full height as the doors slide open.
I stroll from the metal box, taking in my surroundings. I’ve been here once before when negotiating my sister’s union with Charles Lincoln. It doesn’t take a genius to assume his eldest son would have commandeered his corner office upon his demise.
The receptionist opens her mouth to speak as I meander past her but thinks better of it, closing it again without saying a word.
CJ’s office door is closed, and I open it without knocking.
He looks up from his computer, his words of reprimand pausing on his lips when he sees me.
“Bianchi, I’m busy.”
“Good to see you too, Charles.”
He smiles sourly. “Charles was my father’s name.”
I kick the door closed behind me, moving toward the bar cart beside the leather sofa without an invitation. Lifting the first decanter to sniff the amber liquid, I tip my lips in appreciation. I pour myself a sizable nip.
“Do you think parents adopt stupid nicknames like CJ after they realize naming their child after themselves is the dumbest fucking thing in the world? One moment, Mama Lincoln screams the name Charles while your dad’s cock slams inside her, and the next minute, she’s cooing the same name while pinching your chubby baby cheeks.”
“Is there a point to your visit?”
I move to sit down but pause. “Was it this couch that you fucked my sister on, or that one?” I point at the leather settees.
“What the fuck?”
His reaction was appropriately shocked, so I can surmise the rumors have no truth.
I sit down, and he stands.
Pouring a drink, he walks back to his desk, leaning against it.
He waits quietly, sipping his drink and watching me.
“Alessia was here recently, blinds closed, door locked.”
He lifts a brow.
“If you’re fucking her—”
“I’m not.” He cuts me off.
“Why was she here?”
