Chapter 41
Lorenzo
A s we touch down in Cleveland, I feel the difference in the air the second my foot hits the tarmac. I can’t stop watching my toy take it all in, unaware that each molecule has been filtered through my family’s grip for generations.
Her fingers curl around my forearm, trusting. “We’re not going through the terminal?” she asks, those green eyes scanning the private hangar, the waiting black Bentley, the absence of any processing or security.
“No need.” My palm finds the small of her back, guiding her forward. “This is Russo domain.”
I can’t stop touching her—shoulder, wrist, hair—as if making sure she hasn’t dissolved between my fingers.
And every time I do, it quiets something rabid in me.
The driver opens the car door without a word, eyes down in proper deference.
When we slide into the leather interior, I pull her against me, her thigh pressed to mine.
“My family owns everything here,” I tell her, watching her profile as Cleveland’s skyline crawls past the tinted windows. “People know better than to question a Russo.”
“A Russo?” she asks, her voice catching slightly. “Is that… you? I mean, are you a Russo?”
“I am.” I trace the line of her jaw with one finger. “I’m Lorenzo Russo.”
“Why are you only now giving me your full name?” she questions.
I smirk. “You never asked, Toy. You guessed Lorenzo by yourself, but you never asked what my full name is.”
She scoffs, but instead of arguing, she accepts it with a sharp nod. “Touché,” she mumbles.
The city gives way to older neighborhoods, elegant buildings with history etched into their foundations. When we pull up to my building—twenty-eight stories of sleek stone and glass—I feel her shoulders tense slightly.
“This entire building is ours,” I explain, not a question. “I had it constructed eight years ago.”
She blinks. “The whole thing?”
“Yes.” I watch understanding dawn across her face—another layer of my reach made visible. “We’ll stay in the ground-floor apartment.”
“Not the penthouse?” she asks, curiosity dancing behind her eyes.
I step out, offering my hand. “Of course not. You don’t like heights.”
Her lips part slightly, surprise softening her features. It’s such a small detail—one she might not have been aware I knew about, but I know everything about my toy. Her fingers touch mine, delicate and warm.
“I wonder if I’ll ever stop being surprised by the things you know,” she muses. Then she adds, “I hope not.”
“Don’t count on it,” I smirk. “I like surprising you.”
A small, private smile touches her mouth. “Thank you for being thoughtful.”
The quiet gratitude in her voice melts something inside me—a heat that spreads through my chest and makes my fingers tighten around hers. Such a simple thing, and she looks at me like I’ve given her something precious.
I quickly grab our suitcases from the trunk, refusing anyone else to follow us into the apartment I’ve made sure is ready for us. We walk across the lobby and take a left, toward the back, where the door to the apartment hides behind a column.
This is the one apartment I never thought I’d use, so when Piper threw down the gauntlet two weeks ago, saying I couldn’t have her until she knew the real me, I started making preparations for us to come here.
I unlock the door with my thumbprint on the scanner. “It’ll only open for the two of us,” I explain as I open the door.
“How did you…” She stops talking with a shake of her head. “Never mind. I don’t think I want to know how you got my thumbprint.”
Although I could remind her that we got her prints at Blackwood, I don’t. If she wants it to remain a mystery, I’m not going to ruin it for her.
Inside, I watch her face as she takes in the space—the floor-to-ceiling windows, the furniture, and even the paintings. Her eyes travel from the custom kitchen to the hallway leading to the bedroom, until they stop, fixed on something in the living room.
A banner stretches across the main window, and the bold red letters read: WELCOME HOME, KINGMAKER!!
“Fucking Matteo,” I mutter, crossing the room to tear it down. My cousin’s sense of humor hasn’t evolved since we were teenagers. I crush the banner in my fist, tossing it into the trash.
“Kingmaker?” Piper repeats, that sharp mind of hers alread y turning the word over.
“Later.” I check my watch. “Are you hungry? La Volta has a table ready.”
Her face brightens. “I’d love to eat, but I need to shower and get changed first.” She gestures vaguely at her clothes.
“Of course.” I guide her toward the master bathroom. “Take your time.”
While the shower runs, I unpack our suitcases, hanging the clothes in the closet. There are rows of new clothes waiting for her already, garments I’ve bought over the last week. The only thing she won’t find here are panties. There are none.
I select a long black dress with a slit that rises just high enough to make my mouth water, laying it carefully on the bed. Then I pull out a bra and a pair of stilettos I’ve dreamed of seeing her bend over in.
While I wait for her to finish up, I pour a whiskey and light up a cigar, making myself comfortable. For once, I’d like my brain to shut the fuck up, but as time stretches, it becomes clear that ain’t happening.
I feel like a fucking adolescent boy about to ask the girl to prom. Except, I’m not asking Piper anything, I’m telling. And what I’m telling her tonight is everything.
When I hear the sound of the blow dryer, I pour myself another drink and relight the cigar that died in the ashtray. As I puff on it, I smirk, the memory of Halloween coming back to me. Fuck, my toy really is perfect.
Piper finally emerges from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, her long, brown hair cascading down her back. She sees the dress, fingers hovering over the fabric like she already knows it’s more than silk.
“You chose for me,” she says, eyebrow arched.
“I did,” I confirm, stepping closer. “Do you object?”
She playfully rolls her eyes and lifts the dress up, holding it against her. “No, it’s beautiful.” Turning, she grins at me. “That’s why I bought it.”
With those words, she finds her toiletries and disappears back into the bathroom. I give her thirty minutes. Long enough for my anticipation to calcify into something sharp. When I finally join her, the jewelry box feels heavier than it should.
“What’s that?” she asks, eyeing it in the mirror as I position myself behind her.
I open it, revealing the gold necklace with a puzzle piece pendant. “The second last one,” I murmur, lifting her hair out of the way so I can fasten it around her neck.
She goes completely still as the gold settles against her collarbone. She doesn’t move, and I can’t fucking breathe. I’ve orchestrated entire regimes with less pressure than this one moment.
“Second last,” she breathes, tracing its outline. “What’s the last piece?”
Ign oring the question, I watch her in the mirror—the reverent way she touches the pendant, the slight part of her lips, the faint flush in her cheeks.
She understands the significance, even if she doesn’t yet know the full weight of what I’m giving her.
Tonight, she’ll learn exactly who she’s wearing around her neck.
As we drive through Little Italy, her gaze stays locked on the world outside, but I stay locked on her. She has no idea what it does to me, watching her wear the puzzle piece like it’s always belonged there.
When we pull up to La Volta, the driver exits the car and opens the door for us.
Piper slides out first, but when she reaches for his outstretched hand, I let out a low, menacing growl.
“Don’t even think about it.” I palm her hip.
“If you touch him, I’ll have to kill him.
And I don’t want that blood anywhere near you. ”
She stiffens for a second, but then she huffs with annoyance and exits without touching him.
“Apologies, Lorenzo,” the driver says, looking anywhere but at Piper. “I only meant to help.”
I know he did. “It’s fine,” I state, correcting my suit jacket. “I don’t know how long we’ll be, so stay nearby.”
Piper takes my hand, but she doesn’t move yet. “You did nothing wrong,” she says, looking at the driver. “And if he gives you any grief about helping me, I want you to tell me. It was a nice gesture.”
When the driver looks at me, I just shrug. “You heard her, feel free to report me if it happens again.” I smirk as we walk away.
La Volta parts for us like the sea parting for its god. Not one glance meets mine, because power isn’t acknowledged—it’s obeyed.
My hand doesn’t leave the small of Piper’s back as the ma?tre d’ guides us through the main dining room toward the private booths in the back. No words need to be exchanged; my presence is enough.
I’ve walked this path a thousand times, but never with her beside me. Never with the weight of my name balanced like a blade between us, waiting to be handed over hilt-first.
“This is…” Piper’s voice trails off as we’re seated in the curved booth at the back, far from prying eyes.
“My family’s,” I finish for her, though I’m sure that wasn’t what she meant to say. “Like everything else in this city worth having.”
Her eyes catch on the velvet drapes, the obsidian flatware, the way the staff move like shadows. “Why does everyone either look scared or like they want to fuck you?” she asks, sounding annoyed at the last part.
“Does that bother you?” I counter, amused.
Before she can answer, the sommelier approaches. Instead of carrying a wine list, he presents a bottle of wine I’ve had waiting for this exact moment—a Brunello di Montalcino, laid down the year Piper was born.
After filling our glasses, he leaves with a murmured, “Enjoy.”
I r aise my glass. “To knowing.” Her glass meets mine with a delicate ring that echoes between us. “To seeing.”
The wine tastes of dark cherries and the slow burn of patience. I set my glass down, carefully, deliberately, like a man setting a timer on a bomb he has no intention of running from.