Chapter 6
Six
Ilona
The elevator doors slide open, and I step into a world that smells like money and power.
Redthorne Holdings occupies the top floors of one of Chicago's most imposing skyscrapers, all polished marble floors and floor-to-ceiling windows that make the city look like a kingdom waiting to be conquered.
My heels click against the stone with each step, the sound too loud in the hushed reverence of the reception area.
Everything gleams. The brass fixtures. The crystal vase overflowing with white orchids on the curved reception desk.
Even the air feels expensive, filtered and faintly perfumed with orchids and ambition.
I don't belong here. Not that I can't hold my own in surroundings like these, but my twenty-two years on this earth have been spent in either classrooms or my father's mansion. I’ve never walked somewhere without bodyguards stuck to my ass or my father breathing down my neck.
Change is hard to handle, but it’s welcomed.
But still, I can’t shake how wrong this feels.
The thought slithers through my mind unwanted, and I straighten my spine against its poison. I belong wherever I decide to belong. That's the whole point of this new life I'm trying to build. The life growing inside me deserves a mother who walks with her chin up, not one who cowers in corners.
Luna's clothes fit well enough. The black dress slacks hug my hips and fall in a clean line to my ankles, and the black button-up blouse is silk, expensive, the kind of fabric that whispers wealth without screaming it.
I pulled my hair into a neat French twist this morning, fingers trembling as I tucked away the blue tips that would mark me as rebel rather than professional.
My makeup is minimal because minimal is all I had.
Lipstick in a muted rose and powder borrowed from Luna's bathroom drawer, applied in the soft morning light while she assured me everything would be fine.
Everything will be fine. I just need this job. One thing in my life needs to go right.
The receptionist looks up with a practiced smile, her blonde hair swept into an elegant chignon. "You must be Miss Marchetti. Mr. Valentina is expecting you."
Mr. Valentina. Luca Valentina. The man who holds my future in his hands. Please don’t let him be an asshole. I’ve dealt with enough of those in my life already.
"Right this way." The receptionist rises with fluid grace and guides me down a hallway lined with abstract art worth an ungodly amount of money. I know the artist because my mother loves her art just as much as whoever decorated this space.
But that is trivial material that doesn’t matter.
My stomach churns with every step, and I press my hand discreetly against my abdomen, willing the nausea to stay at bay.
Morning sickness has been unpredictable, striking at the worst moments, and the last thing I need is to vomit on this man's Italian leather shoes. At least I assume he’ll have Italian leather shoes.
He could be in a Hawaiian shirt and flipflops for all I know.
There I go letting my mind run with ridiculous thoughts, but it's helping me take my mind off the wave of upheaval my stomach is going through.
Losing my limited amount of breakfast in the near future would be disastrous. That would be a fantastic first impression. Hi, I'm Ilona, and I come with a hair-trigger gag reflex and zero dignity.
We stop before heavy wooden doors with brushed gold handles that catch the light like warnings.
"Mr. Valentina's office." The receptionist knocks twice, then pushes the door open without waiting for a response. "Your nine o'clock is here, sir."
I step inside, and his scent hits me like a freight train.
Sandalwood. Black pepper. Smoke.
My heart stops. My feet freeze mid-step on the expensive lush carpet. Recognition slams through me with the force of a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs and sending ice cascading down my spine.
But how? My mind races through multiple possibilities. No. No, no, no.
The receptionist urges me inside and I step through before the door closes behind me.
The click of the door closing behind me seals my fate.
The office is massive, all dark wood and leather and windows spanning the entire back wall, flooding the space with October morning light.
But I barely register any of it. My attention narrows to the man standing at those windows, his back to me, broad shoulders filling out a perfectly tailored charcoal suit.
Long dark hair gathered at his nape with a leather cord.
That familiar stance. That commanding presence.
I know that silhouette. My gaze drifts lower. I know those hands. Those tattoos. I know the way he holds himself like the world exists at his pleasure.
"Miss Marchetti." His voice pours over me like warm honey laced with the finest bourbon money can buy, and every cell in my body screams in recognition. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. Please, have a seat."
My pulse detonates. That voice. I know that voice. I've heard it whisper filthy promises against my skin. I've heard it groan my name as pleasure consumed us both.
It can't be. The universe isn't this cruel.
He turns.
And there he is.
Tall. Broad. Devastating in a charcoal suit that fits him like it was sewn onto his body by angels with a grudge against women everywhere.
Long dark hair falls past his collar, gathered loosely at his nape with a leather cord, a few rebellious waves escaping to frame his face.
That face. Strong jaw beneath a trimmed salt-and-pepper beard.
Full lips I've tasted. Dark eyes that burned with hunger as he took me apart piece by piece in that candlelit room.
My mystery man. My one perfect night.
Dante.
Except his name isn't Dante. It never was.
"You." The word is pulled from my throat, raw and coated with layers of confusion.
His lips curve into that devastating smile I remember too well. The one that made my knees weak at Scarlet Thorn. The one that now sends my thoughts spiraling into chaos.
"Me." He moves away from the window with a predator's grace, each step deliberate and unhurried. "Please, Miss Marchetti. Sit. We have much to discuss."
"Your name isn't Dante." My voice wavers, barely above a whisper. The room tilts slightly, and I grip the back of the nearest chair to steady myself.
"You gave me a fake name." The hurt in my voice catches me off guard. I didn't care at the time. Why should I care now?
Because I wanted to believe he trusted me with one small detail about himself. My inner voice is quick to reveal my real thoughts.
"I gave you a name for one night." He settles into his chair behind the massive desk, casual as a king taking his throne. "You gave me the same courtesy, if I recall. Just Ilona. No last name. We were both playing the masquerade game."
I open my mouth to argue, but the words dissolve on my tongue. He's not wrong. I didn't offer my last name either. I just wanted one night of freedom, one night where names and families and expectations didn't matter.
"Sit down, Ilona." His voice softens, just a fraction. "Your legs are shaking."
They are. Damn him, they are. I force myself to cross to the leather chair facing his desk, each step feeling like I'm wading through wet concrete.
I lower myself into the seat and grip the armrests until my knuckles ache, the cool leather pressing against my thighs in stark contrast to the fire burning through my nervous system.
The chair probably costs more than six months of rent.
Everything in this office screams power and control, and I'm suddenly very aware that I have neither.
He knew who I was the night Luna gave me his number.
The whole weekend he knew. The realization crashes over me in waves, each one pulling me further under.
Luna gave her friend Katriana all my details.
He knew exactly who would be walking through that door this morning, and he didn't even reach out.
Didn't warn me. Didn't give me a single moment to prepare.
He just stood there with his back to me, letting me walk straight into this trap.
What a devil.
I watch him settle deeper into his chair, completely at ease while my world crumbles. His fingers steeple beneath his chin, and those dark eyes study me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle and heat bloom unwanted across my chest.
"You knew." The accusation hangs between us like smoke. "Katriana gave you my full name. You knew who would walk through that door."
"I knew." No denial. No excuse. No flicker of guilt across those handsome features. Just calm confirmation delivered with the casual indifference of a man discussing the weather.
It makes me want to scream. Or slap that composed expression right off his face.
Two days. He knew for two days and said nothing. Let me walk in here completely blind while he held all the cards, stacked the deck, and waited to see how I'd play.
"Why not tell me?" My nails dig crescents into the leather armrests. "Why let me walk in here unprepared?"
"Would you have come if you knew?"
No. I would have run in the opposite direction and never looked back. There’s one thing about hooking up with a stranger and something all together different about hooking up with your father’s enemy.
And then working for him.
Nope. That’s a compound problem on top of a compound problem.
I don't say the words, but I don't have to. My silence screams them loud enough.
His gaze traces my face, lingering on the tight press of my lips, the tension in my jaw, the way my fingers have gone white against the armrests. Something flickers in those dark eyes. Recognition. Understanding. Maybe even a hint of something softer that vanishes before I can name it.