Chapter Seventeen
My body is heavy, weighted down by a combination of satisfaction and a sinking, rock-in-the-gut sense of failure.
He touched me. He had me. Right there on the railing, thirty floors up, with the city watching.
And I liked it. I was too busy at that stupid gala to think about it yesterday. Now, in the dark, I can’t think about much else.
That’s the part that makes me want to scream into the pillow. The betrayal of my own senses. I spent last night wanting him to touch me, needing him to be closer, and now that the sun is up, I feel cheap. Used. Or worse—I feel like I’ve used him.
I kick the sheets away, sitting up. The room smells like sex and cedar, a scent that seems to have seeped into the drywall.
Stop it.
I shove the heels of my hands into my eyes, rubbing until I see spots. Focus.
The anger is still there, but it’s muffled now. Wrapped in layers of confusing lust and the memory of his hands on my skin. I need to sharpen it. I need to find the edge again.
I slide out of bed and pad to the window. The city is a grid of indifference. Somewhere out there, there are answers.
The name Colombo keeps surfacing in my mind like a bloated corpse. I saw it in the file, mentioned alongside the debt recovery. Last night, Nikita had dropped the name like a grenade—Don Lorenzo of the Colombo family.
Is he a rival syndicate? Partner? Enemy? I need to know.
I dress quickly in leggings and an oversized sweater. Armor against the world.
The penthouse is quiet. Anna is in the kitchen, the clatter of pans the only sign of life. I bypass it, heading straight for the hallway.
The locked door stands at the end, a sentinel of dark wood and reinforced steel.
I approach slowly. My heart rate kicks up, a nervous flutter.
I test the handle. It’s locked, obviously. I glance up at the corner. The black dome of the camera is unblinking.
Nikita is watching. Or someone is.
I take a breath, dropping my shoulders. I can’t act like a thief. I need to act like… nothing.
I turn my back to the door. I lean against the wall, pretending to look out of the hallway window. I tap my foot. I sigh.
I’m a bored housewife waiting for her husband.
I keep this up for a full minute. Casual. Disinterested. I even check my reflection in the mirror of a nearby vase, smoothing my hair.
Then, I move.
I drop to one knee, pretending to tie my shoe. As I’m down there, I run my fingers along the bottom edge of the doorframe. The door is old, with a physical key lock, but something tells me it’s a ruse.
The sensors are usually magnetic. Maybe I can find some kind of component…
I stand up slowly, my mind racing. It’s not just a keycard. It’s biological. Fingerprints? Retinas?
That means I can’t pick the lock or trick it. I need Nikita.
I look back up at the camera. I smirk, shaking my head like I’m laughing at something random. Then I turn and walk away, leaving the door exactly as I found it.
Let him watch me leave. It’s better than him watching me fail.
***
At dinner, I don’t say a thing.
Nikita is at the head of the table, cutting a steak with surgical precision. I’m at his right, pushing risotto around my plate.
There are guests tonight. A man named Viktor and his wife, Elena. Viktor is loud, his face flushed with expensive wine. Elena is quiet, her eyes darting around the room like a trapped bird.
“Expansion, Nikita,” Viktor says, gesturing with his fork. “That’s the future. The docks are good, but the airport? That’s gold.”
“The airport is secured,” Nikita replies. “By people who don’t want to sell.”
“Everyone sells,” Viktor laughs. “Everyone has a price.”
I tune them out, focusing on the subtext. Politics. Territory. Money.
“You’ve got roots in the Colombo syndicate, don’t you?” Viktor asks suddenly.
The silence that follows is instantaneous.
Elena stops eating. The server pauses halfway to pouring more wine.
Nikita doesn’t miss a beat. He spears a piece of steak, lifting it to his mouth.
“The Colombos are a remnant,” he says calmly. “Old blood dying out.”
“They’re still dangerous,” Viktor insists. “I heard they’re moving in on the Bronx.”
“Let them try.”
Nikita’s voice is flat, but I see it. For a split second, his jaw tightens. A micro-tension in his hand where he gripped the fork. He cares. He’s worried, or he’s planning.
“My husband doesn’t concern himself with dying breeds,” I say, speaking for the first time.
Everyone looks at me. I smile, laying a hand on Nikita’s arm. His muscle is hard under my fingertips, tense.
“He focuses on the future,” I continue. “Don’t you, darling?”
Nikita looks at me. His gaze is heavy, searching. He knows I’m fishing. He knows I heard the slip.
“The future,” he agrees, covering my hand with his, “is expensive.”
He squeezes my fingers in warning.
I pull my hand away. “I need more wine,” I say, pushing my chair back.
The night drags on. I play my part—smiling, nodding, the perfect, silent accessory. The whole time, my mind is racing.
After dinner, we move to the lounge for drinks. I find myself standing near the balcony doors, watching the guests mingle.
Nikita appears beside me. “You’re quiet,” he says.
“I’m listening.”
“To what?”
“Ghosts.”
He sighs, a sound of long-suffering patience. “Viktor has a big mouth,” he says.
“He mentioned the Colombos.”
“He mentions everyone big. It’s how he feels important.”
“They’re not important?”
“They’re a nuisance.”
I turn to look at him. He’s wearing a suit, dark gray, tailored perfectly. He looks like a king.
“If they’re just a nuisance,” I say quietly, “why did you tense up when he said their name?”
He doesn’t deny it. “I hate nuance,” he says. “And I hate repeating myself.”
He shifts closer. His arm brushes against mine. The heat of him bleeds through the fabric of my dress.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he murmurs. His voice drops an octave, vibrating against my ear.
“I look like a prop.”
“You look incredible.”
The compliment catches me off guard. “Liar.”
“Am I?” He turns, facing me fully. He’s invading my space again, boxing me in against the glass door. “I saw the way Viktor looked at you. Like he was calculating your value.”
“What is my value?”
“Incalculable.”
He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers graze my jawline. The touch is light, barely there, but it sends a shiver down my spine.
I remember the other night—his hands on my hips and his breath against my neck.
My body reacts instantly, a traitorous flush of heat that pools in my belly.
I look up at him. His eyes are dark, fixed on my mouth. He wants to kiss me. I can feel it in the air between us—the static, the pull. He’s leaning closer, just a fraction of an inch.
Deep down… I want him to.
I want him to grab me and drag me into the dark and make me forget about Ayaan and files and syndicates. I want to lose myself in the brute force of him.
If I give in, I lose the leverage. If I give him this, I have nothing left to bargain with.
“You want something,” I say, my voice coming out raspy.
“I want you.”
“Tell me about Site 4.”
His hand freezes. The air turns icy. “Excuse me?”
“Site 4,” I repeat, emboldened by the sudden crack in his armor. “The transfer order. Where did Ayaan go?”
He steps back. The distance returns, but the heat lingers. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Freya.”
“I’m asking a simple question.”
“I don’t answer questions about things that don’t concern you.”
“He’s my brother!”
Viktor and Elena stop talking. The staff freezes.
Nikita glances around, his jaw working. He turns back to me, his eyes blazing. “We are done here,” he says, his voice low and deadly.
“Are we?”
I turn and walk away, leaving him standing by the glass doors.
I don’t look back.