Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Isla
By the time we step off the elevator, I’m so chilled that I’m almost shaking.
My goose bumps have nothing to do with the gust of air-conditioning that bites my bare skin when I enter the penthouse.
They’re from the camera lens that was shoved in my face.
From the question about Lena. From the way Brennan threatened the man and clamped his hand around my waist and shoved me into the limo.
He clicks the door shut behind us. A mechanical beep assures us the alarm is set.
But now… The peace and quiet is almost jarring.
The penthouse’s marble floors gleam in the afternoon light. Beyond the glass walls, Houston’s skyline looms, a solid as ever.
Yet I don’t feel relief that I’m home. Instead, I feel…disoriented. Like I’ve stepped into a beautiful lie I no longer believe in .
Brennan is already halfway across the room, pulling out his phone.
“Who was that man?” I ask.
He shakes his head and swipes the screen without responding.
“Brennan.”
“Give me a minute.”
Isn’t that the way it always is? Brennan tries to reassure me and handles details while being completely vague.
He enters the home office and shuts the door behind him.
Of course he does.
My life is crashing down around me in slow motion while my men file the horrible events away business as usual.
And why wouldn’t they? This is their life.
The one I unwillingly entered.
I drop my small handbag on the bar and open the wine refrigerator and pull out a bottle of chardonnay. I pick up the opener. Then I wonder if that’s the smartest thing. A glass might help settle my nerves, but maybe I need my wits about me.
Right now, I have no doubt Brennan’s calling Dorian. Frankly I’m surprised he waited this long.
I’m sure Dorian is nearby. After all, his business is headquartered in this building, ten floors below us.
My legs feel wooden as I cross to the windows. Even though it’s impossible, I can still feel the reporter’s breath on my cheek. Hear his voice, mockingly triumphant as if he alone knows a secret. And there was the way he said her name.
Lena Ludwig.
Though I’d never heard it before, it still made me reel, as if I’d been punched. Because somehow she matters, and she’s connected with my men. And therefore, me.
I press my palms to the cold glass and watch the traffic snake along the road below, a thousand lives moving forward while mine is at a standstill.
Behind me, the office door closes.
“Well?” I turn to face Brennan.
“He’s being taken care of.”
I frown. “Who is?” Then it hits me. “You mean the reporter?” Oh God. What does that even mean?
Brennan doesn’t flinch. “The footage won’t air.”
I stare at him. “Did you?—”
“I said it’s handled.”
His even tone does something terrible to my chest.
I wrap my arms around myself, but there’s no armor that is strong enough to protect me in this world.
It’s only now that the adrenaline spike has receded that I realize that Brennan had been there. Even though I said I didn’t want or need a bodyguard. He’d followed me, staying out of sight, letting me have an illusion of safety. “You knew something would happen.”
He shrugs lightly. “It’s always a risk.”
God. My knees suddenly feel weak.
I thought I’d known what I was getting myself into when I married Dorian. But I’d had no idea.
“So who was she?” I meet his eyes. “And what does she have to do with Dorian?”
Brennan looks away.
My heart pounds. “You know what? Forget it. I’ll just wait. That’s the routine, right? Wait for Dorian to show up and decide how much I get to know. And then the two of you distract me and pretend everything is okay.”
And I hate how well it works.
Even now…
While he was in the office, Brennan removed his suit coat and tie. His shirt sleeves are rolled back .
He’s large. In control. Reassuring. Even if his hair is mussed from him dragging a hand through it.
Now that I’m here, safe in the cocoon of intimacy they’ve created in our home, the air of confidence he exudes invites me to forget what happened.
And I’m tempted yet again.
Beyond frustrated with him, with the situation, even myself, I walk past, back to the bar. This time, I do reach for the bottle of wine. Not that I’ll be able to get it open with the way my hands are shaking.
“He’ll tell you.” Brennan’s words are quiet, so quiet I almost don’t hear them.
“Will he?” I tip my head to the side to study him. “You know? Never mind. I’ll find out myself.” I stride to my purse and fish out my phone.
Brennan goes pale.
“The internet should know something.”
“Isla…” There’s real warning in his tone.
“I’m sure Celeste is expensive, but worth it.”
“Don’t.”
“Or what?” I demand.
“Be patient.” Brennan moves in closer, not in a rush, not crowding me. Just a steady presence. One I want to hate—but can’t.
“Look, let me get you some wine. Dorian will be here in less than five minutes. If you’re not satisfied then, hire Celeste, and I’ll write the check.”
I exhale shakily. “Five minutes.”
At his nod, I drop my phone back into place.
Brennan uncorks the bottle and carries a glass to me.
Our fingers brush, and I meet his eyes.
He’s so close, I inhale the scent of masculine determination and protection. No matter what, this man will always take care of me. Even if I don’t want it .
Why can’t this be simple?
He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Isla…”
“Stop.” Needing to protect myself, I hurry away to stand in the middle of the living room.
I clutch the stem tightly. But since my hands are still a little shaky, I don’t take a sip.
Between us, the tension thickens like humidity before a Gulf storm. I don’t even hear the elevator. Just feel it. The shift in pressure. The inevitability.
And then?—
“Isla.”
Dorian’s voice is as deep as it low, scraping across my spine like a caress and a curse.
He strides into the living room, every inch the man who bends cities and boardrooms to his will. The sun casts sharp lines across his tailored charcoal suit. His tie’s loose, enough to suggest that the edges he has over his control are fraying.
The air temperature chills another ten degrees, and I put my drink down on the coffee table before I spill it.
Without hesitation, he crosses to me and takes my shoulders. His grip is strong but not quite painful as he rakes his gaze over my face. “Did he hurt you?” His demanding voice is a whiplash of fury.
Brennan answers before I can. “He never touched her.”
Dorian’s jaw flexes as he looks at his partner. “If he did, he’d be dead.”
“Yeah. He would.”
I shiver and look between them. Their eyes are dark and damning.
Jesus.
They both mean every word. They’d kill a man for touching me.
My stomach turns.
Dorian’s eyes lock with mine again, searching. Not for bruises. For damage. He looks like a man at war—one whose enemy might be standing right in front of him.
I don’t want to need him. Don’t want to lean into the comfort of his grip.
But I do.
God help me, I do.
Even though it costs me all my resolve, I straighten and pull back.
He lets his hands fall away slowly. Measured. As if he knows that holding on too tight right now might break the fragile bond between us.
He moves to the opposite side of the bar, mirroring Brennan. We’re a triangle, and the tension is palpable.
Neither of them wants to open the conversation, leaving it to me. “Tell me who she is.”
Dorian’s jaw tightens again.
“I asked Brennan.” I can’t keep the bitterness from my tone. “But evidently you’re the one who decides what I get to know.”
Shoulders tense beneath his perfectly tailored suit, Dorian flattens his hands on the top of the marble bar.
I’d expected him to rise to my bait and lose his temper, but he doesn’t.
If I wasn’t so in tune with him, I wouldn’t have noticed the tiny tic at his temple that warns me to watch my step.
But today, for the first time, I’m feeling slightly reckless.
My voice cuts through the stillness like a blade. “Tell me what the hell is going on. And if you don’t, I will find out on my own. I want to know why a reporter shoved a camera in my face and asked about a woman I’ve never heard of.”
Dorian doesn’t respond right away. He just looks at me. The weight of it pins me in place.
“Because you’re my wife and I’m planning to run for Senate. ”
“And the things in the dossier, every bit of your dirty laundry, will be dug up and dragged through the press.”
“The reporter was freelance.” Slowly he exhales.
Then, at his nod, Brennan goes on. “The best my team can ascertain, he was fed a tip by the sitting senator.”
“I’m still confused.”
“We believe the information came from a man named Marco Gallo.”
A name I haven’t heard before. “And who is he?”
The tension in the room grows and stretches, and I search both of their faces.
Dorian’s expression tightens. “He worked as…” Choosing his words with care, he goes on. “An associate of the Morettis.”
I’ve read plenty of books, enough to know what a mob associate is. Not a member of the family, not a made man, but someone on the edges.
Brennan confirms my suspicions. “Enforcer. Cleanup guy. Depends on the job. He’s loyal to the Morettis, not to us.”
I push further, even though part of me is screaming that I shouldn’t know this. “So Moretti is trying to hurt you?”
“No.” Dorian’s answer is careful.
“So…” My mind spins wildly as I attempt to put the pieces together. “Vale Imports was moving goods for the family.”
The two men exchange glances, and Brennan pours two glasses of whiskey and gives one to Dorian.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Marco is in jail. He wants protection.” Brennan’s voice is dead calm. “And he’s trying to buy it. With secrets.”
“Secrets?” I take a step back, like that might help me process the bombshell being dropped on my already-overloaded system. “What kind of secrets? ”
There’s another beat of silence. Another unspoken answer.
Dorian lifts one shoulder. “It’s a long story.”
I’m undeterred. “I’ve got as long as it takes.”