CHAPTER 22
MAUREEN
The hallway felt too long. My heels clicked against marble, echoing louder than my own heartbeat. I reached the third door Matteo had pointed out, inhaled once, then stepped inside.
Luciano was alone, as promised. Mid-forties, clean-shaven, silver streaking through slicked-back dark hair. He looked rich in that old money way—cigar in one hand, glass of scotch in the other, sitting with one leg crossed and suspicion already in his eyes.
“Luciano.” I let his name pour out of my mouth like honey, closing the door behind me with a soft click.
His eyes raked over me. “You’re not the waitress.”
“No,” I purred, walking slowly across the room, hips swaying. “But I thought you might like something stronger.”
“And who sent you?” he asked, raising a brow.
“I sent myself.”
