Chapter 7
1554 Words
Silence.
Thick. Wet.
The room smelled of recycled air and meat. The only sound was the computer tower vibrating against the floorboards and the smack-smack of Matteo chewing.
My ribs felt cracked. My heart was battering against them, a bird throwing itself at the bars of a cage.
Matteo filled the doorway. He took up too much oxygen. A smear of mayonnaise clung to the corner of his mouth, glistening white under the fluorescents. He looked from the sleeping black screen of his monitor to the files crushed against my chest.
He stepped in. The door bumped his heel. Thud.
"Isabella." Voice thick with bread. "I asked you a question."
Nowhere to run. The sharp edge of the desk dug into my hip bones. Behind me, inside the drawer, the hard drive felt radioactive. It was screaming to be taken.
I forced my hands to unclench. White knuckles loosening on the manila folders. I shoved them out. A paper shield between his grease and my silk.
"Expense reports." My voice sounded bored. Flat. The voice of a woman who cared about audits, not conspiracies. "Luca wants the Q3 security audits. You haven't signed them."
Matteo stopped chewing. He swallowed. Loud. He looked at the files. Then up.
His eyes dropped. To the mouth. To the red.
The suspicion didn't vanish. It just changed. Curdled into something oilier. Familiar.
He licked the mayo off his lip.
"You broke into my office for signatures?"
"Door was unlocked," I lied. Chin up. "And Luca is on a warpath. I didn't want to tell him you were out to lunch while the port authority is screaming about inspection codes."
The name was a weapon.
Matteo flinched. A twitch of the left eye. He hated Luca. He hated the way Luca looked at him, spoke to him. But the fear was stronger.
He set the sandwich on a filing cabinet. A ring of grease stained the metal immediately. He wiped his hands on his trousers.
He walked up to me.
Too close.
The smell hit like a slap. Onions. Stale coffee. Old sweat masked by heavy, musk-based cologne. I could count the clogged pores on his nose. I could hear the faint wheeze in his chest.
"Dedicated," he murmured. His gaze slid down my neck. Heavy. Tangible. "Or maybe you just wanted to see me."
Bile rose in my throat. Hot. Sour.
I forced a smile. Tight. The wax on my lips felt like it was about to crack and bleed.
"Just the signature, Matteo. Then I disappear."
A chuckle. Wet. Throaty. He reached out. Took the pen. His fingers brushed mine. Damp. Clammy.
I didn't pull away. Weakness was blood in the water.
He leaned over the files. Taking his time. He scribbled his name on the first page. Flipped it. Scribbled again. He wasn't looking at the paper. He was watching me out of the corner of his eye, enjoying the proximity. Enjoying the trap.
"There." He straightened. He didn't back up. He stayed in my personal space, pinning me against the desk. "Anything else? While you're in here?"
The computer hummed. Evidence. The drive sat in the drawer, inches from my hip.
"No." I sidestepped. Slid along the sharp edge of the desk to get around him, holding my breath to avoid inhaling him. "That’s all."
I made the door. Hand on the cool metal knob.
"Isabella."
I froze.
"Nice lipstick," he said to my back. "Wear it more."
I didn't look back. I walked.
Hallway.
Click. Clack. Click.
Heels sounding like gunshots on the tile. Faster.
Ladies' room. I shoved the door open with a shoulder, bypassed the stalls, went straight to the sinks.
Cold water. Full blast.
I stared at the glass.
Chest heaving. Red blotches blooming on my neck—a map of panic. The lipstick was perfect, a s***h of violence against pale skin, but the eyes were wrong. Wild. Too much white showing.
I gripped the porcelain. Knuckles turning the color of bone.
Safe.
A breath tore out of me. Half-sob.
Matteo was a creep. A loose end. But he wasn't the predator. He was just the scavenger.
The timestamp was the problem.
User: L_DELUCA. 9:42 PM.
Math. Do the math.
Last night. 9:42 PM.
I was in the penthouse.
I squeezed my eyes shut. The scene replayed in the dark, high-definition and terrifying.
The smell of rain and scotch. The plush rug swallowing my shoes.
Luca pouring the drink. Clink. Me sitting on the leather sofa, trying to keep my hands steady.
“I need a refill. And ice.”
He had walked to the kitchen. Disappeared behind the massive partition wall.
I had waited. I had heard the ice machine. Clack-clack.
I thought he was just getting a drink. I thought I was the clever one, sneaking a look at the box while he was distracted.
But he wasn't just getting ice.
He had his phone. Or a tablet on the counter.
He logged into the secure server. He checked the deletion logs for the day Elena died.
Why?
Why check a ten-year-old file in the middle of a drink with his assistant?
Because I was there.
Because he saw me looking at the files on the coffee table too closely. Because he saw the way my eyes tracked the room. Because he felt the tension vibrating off me.
He wasn't flirting last night. He was assessing.
He was a predator walking the perimeter of his territory because he smelled something foreign.
He knew something was wrong. He didn't know what yet—didn't know I was Elena’s sister—but he smelled a rat.
He was making sure the trap was clean before he sprung it.
I splashed water on my wrists. Ice cold. It shocked my system, grounding the electricity in my nerves.
Paranoia.
Paranoia was good. Paranoid men made mistakes. They overcompensated. They slipped.
But the clock was ticking louder now. He was checking the locks. Soon, he’d change the passwords. Soon, he’d wipe that drive.
I grabbed a paper towel. The rough brown paper scratched my skin as I dried my hands.
I needed that drive.
Not today. Matteo was spooked. He’d be watching his office like a hawk for the rest of the afternoon.
I tossed the towel in the bin.
I adjusted my blouse. Checked the reflection.
Still red. Still war paint.
I wasn't leaving. I wasn't running.
I pushed the door open. Back into the lion's den.
"Isabella."
The voice was low. Velvet dragged over gravel.
I stopped.
A wall of expensive charcoal suit blocked my path.
Luca.
He was coming out of the elevator bank. Jacket on, buttons done. He looked sharp. Composed. A razor blade in human form.
The contrast to Matteo was jarring. No smell of onions. No sweat. Just cool control and the faint, maddening scent of sandalwood and ozone.
He stopped.
I stopped.
Two feet of air between us. Charged air.
He looked down. His eyes didn't go to the mouth this time. They locked on mine. Gray irises searching, dissecting, peeling back layers to see what was underneath.
"I was looking for you."
My heart skipped. A physical jolt against the ribs. Fear, not lust. But the line was blurring, getting messy.
"Matteo’s signature," I said quickly. I held up the files like a talisman against evil. "Done."
He glanced at the folder. Dismissed it. He didn't care about the paperwork.
"Dinner tonight," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"The structural engineers for the chaotic port project are flying in," he continued. "I need the updated specs on the table."
"I emailed them to you an hour ago."
"I know." He took a step closer. The air pressure dropped in the corridor. "I want hard copies. At the restaurant. And I want you there to take notes."
"Tonight?"
"7:00 PM. Le Bernardin."
My stomach dropped. Le Bernardin. Three stars. Quiet. Intimate. A place where deals were made in whispers and food cost more than my rent.
He paused.
His gaze drifted. It slid down to my chin. To the mouth. To the red.
He stared at it for a beat too long. His pupils dilated, swallowing the gray.
"And wear the lipstick," he said. His voice dropped an octave, vibrating in my chest. "It intimidates the engineers."
He didn't wait for an answer. He didn't smile.
He walked past me, his shoulder brushing mine—a calculated grazing that sent a shiver ratcheting down my spine.
He headed toward his office without looking back.
I stood there in the hallway.
7:00 PM.
He wasn't just keeping me close at work. He was dragging me into his night. He was putting me on display.
He was watching me. He was testing me.
I watched his back disappear. Shoulders broad. Dangerous.
My hand went to the locket hidden under my blouse. The cold metal bit into my skin, a reminder of why I was here. A reminder of the dead girl who couldn't fight back.
"Fine," I whispered to the empty hall.
I’d go. I’d wear the paint.
I’d bring the files.
And I’d bring the voice recorder.
He thought he was summoning a subordinate. He didn't know he was inviting the enemy to dinner.
If he wanted to keep me close, he was going to regret it.
- Writer
