CHAPTER FOUR
2005 Words
THE MEETING
I don’t know why I linger longer than average on myself.
The mirror in the dressing suite catches all angles — the sheen of a deep red gown, an inconspicuous slit that cuts up my thigh like a whispered secret, the soft wave of hair spilling over one shoulder. The dress is quiet but impossible to ignore. It shifts like liquid heat when I move, catching the dimmest reflection of the vanity bulbs.
“You look like sin and politics just fell in love,” Rosie says from behind me, her voice half-teasing, half-moaning.
I roll my eyes lightly. “That’s oddly specific.”
“It’s accurate.” She steps forward and fiddle with the necklace against my collarbone.
“You’re glowing.” she says
I’m tired.
Not glowing.
But tired doesn’t do the job.
“Victor needs perfection tonight, you know right” Rosie adds, more softly now.
“When does he not?” I say with a groan
She doesn’t respond because she knows I’m correct. Instead, she checks off my lipstick, pats at my hair, runs her hand down the dress. Rosie may be a mess in a silk robe, but where we’re concerned — the girls — she’s stable.
She’s the reason I can breathe on nights like this.
“Who’s the client?” she asks.
“A whole room’s worth,” I say, snapping the clasp of my clutch. “Business tycoons, donors, board members. The usual set.”
“And the assignment?”
I hesitate.
I shouldn’t tell anyone, I don’t tell anyone what my job entails.
But Rosie is Rosie.
“Victor is asking for something from him,” I whisper. “Information.”
Her expression twists. “Recently, he’s been asking for too much from you.”
“He always will.” I say to her as we share a look.
Rosie swallows like she’s about to argue but reconsiders. Instead she pats my hand.
“Be careful,” she murmurs.
“I always am.”
The car ride is short. Manhattan shines with its present-day arrogance — tall glass shining, lit windows, distant sirens, the streets fixed to the hum of all that expensive night life. It’s gorgeous in a way that smacks of obliviousness. As if it were unaware of what lurked in its shadows.
The building tonight is tall, private and discreet. No signs. No photographers. No lingering at the entrance by people.
A wall of warm amber light spills out inside when the driver opens my door.
The guard up front gives one nod — he knows me. Not by name. No one here knows me by name. They know what I am.
I step inside
It smells like quiet money, the air inside the Crestmont Private Lounge.
Not the noisy variety — not the sort splashed across charity galas and corporate press photos. The Crestmont serves a different kind of animal. The older, colder wealth. The kind that purchases silence as easily as other men buy coffee.
Warm amber light spills onto walnut walls and deep leather couches. A quiet jazz trio hums over speakers.
The bar glimmers with decanters of old whiskey and crystal tumblers. The room buzzes with chatter that is hushed, brief and dear.
And it’s the perfect place for someone like Lorenzo De Luca to walk into that kind of scene.
And for me to be ready when he does.
I arrive early.
On purpose.
In my business, early is the only avatar of control I know. It enables me to size up the room before the room sizes me up.
The red slit dress circles my body like heat that knows to be in order. My hair is in soft waves, and my lipstick is a deep, dark berry — subtle until caught by the light.
The hostess at the front desk offered me a respectful nod.
“Miss Isabella. Mr. De Luca just texted to confirm he’s on his way.”
Her voice is warm, polite; almost deferential.
That’s how it always is.
I perch myself on a stool at the bar, crossing my legs with perfect ease, and take a glass of sparking water. I never drink before a job. Head clear, pulse even, to stand perfectly still.
I exhale slowly.
Rosie would say I look beautiful!
Ava would tease me.
Mila would tell me to keep my guard up.
They’re all back in the penthouse, preparing for that night’s assorted clients, each girl shrouded by her own mask.
Tonight, mine feels heavier.
Not because of fear.
That Victor sent me on a task involving this man.
A dangerous assignment.
But Victor isn’t here tonight.
Thank God.
I run my hand over my clutch. The chilly vial that Victor handed me sits on the mantlepiece, unopened — and it’ll stay there until I know what the f**k I’m dealing with.
Which leads me to the man himself.
Lorenzo De Luca.
The name has reverberated around New York’s billionaire circles for decades. A CEO with old Italian money. Clean on paper. Quiet in public. There are whispers of mafia ties, but ephemeral ones — the kind that I think mean he doesn’t get hands dirty, just ensures that they fall where they should.
A fellow like that does not use prostitutes for s*x or appearance, he hires them to do nothing at all.
He hires them as a message.
I take a sip of my water and let the room find its surface. A few men look in my direction —g uys I know, guys I’ve canoodled with, guys who know better than to slide into Victor’s territory.
But none of that matters tonight.
Only him.
The door opens.
I don’t turn.
I never turn first.
Instead, I let the room tell me.
Conversations shift. A hush of silence slices through the lounge. Not loud — but just subtle enough that a discerning woman can feel it. Someone important just walked in.
I inhale slowly.
Count two seconds.
Then glance toward the entrance.
He’s there.
Lorenzo.
It’s not his face I see first.
Not his body.
That’s not the way he walks.
It’s the stillness.
There are some guys who walk into a room as if they want to own it.
Some walk in like they already do.
Lorenzo stumbles in as if he doesn’t need much to dominate everything at all.
Black hair, thick and wavy as the surf: a charcoal suit, clean lines, no tie — open at the throat a black shirt. With his hands in front pockets, stood perfect posture. Not stiff. Not arrogant. Just… composed.
It is not in his nature to take a moment to adapt to the room.
The room adjusts to him.
He takes a few steps toward the front desk, whispers to the hostess — civilly and effectively; no histrionics. She gestures toward me.
His gaze follows her gesture.
He sees me.
Not like I’m a painting.
Not like I’m prey.
It’s not as though I’m a prize he bought.
Just… acknowledges.
I rise as he strides closer, my professional smile beckoning — the one that gains access, melts adversaries, seduces entire tables.
He comes to a halt well out of arm’s reach.
“Isabella,” he mumbles, low, smooth, warm like aged whiskey. “Thank you for coming tonight.”
Polite.
Elegant.
Can’t let him pretend he doesn’t know exactly who I am.
“Mr. De Luca,” I add dipping my head. “It’s wonderful to meet you at last.”
There is something in his eyes, flickering interest or whatever it might be, but it does not linger.
“Lorenzo,” he corrects gently. “Tonight, we’ll keep things simple.”
“Simple works,” I reply.
He nods once, liking the answer.
He offers his arm. “Shall we?”
Not possessive.
Not demanding.
Just… offering.
I take his arm.
His touch is warm, steady.
Not greedy.
Not searching.
It surprises me.
Most men at his rank would cling.
He guides.
We step through the lounge, walking toward a VIP gateway. He is neither lingering nor hovering, slow enough that I can walk in my heels without feeling like he’s trying to rush me, but not so cautious that anyone could mistake him for tentative.
We pass a few big men who nod toward him.
He nods back, expression unchanged.
No introductions.
No showing me off.
He is not using me for attention.
Interesting.
When we get to the elevator for the penthouse-level event, he hits the button and steps aside for me to enter first.
His civil manner discomposes me for a half-beat.
Few men give me anything.
Not doors.
Not respect.
We step back inside the elevator with a respectful distance between us — room for professionalism, but not distance for disinterest.
“You are very prompt,” I say, just because silence is too much of a tell.
“I hate pissing away time,” he says simply.
“Guys like you probably get off on making people wait.” I say trying to get a reaction.
He glances at me. “I’m not most men.”
It’s not a line.
It’s a fact.
I hold his gaze. “Why hire me?”
A beat.
Soft.
Measured.
“You’re known for being discreet,” he says.
Not beautiful.
Not desirable.
Not enviable.
Discreet.
“And,” he adds, “for being really good at what you do.”
It makes something in my chest tighten — not flattery, not pride.
Recognition.
“That’s a compliment of the highest order,” I murmur.
“It’s a sincere one.”
The elevator dings.
When the doors part, an effusion of hushed conversation and muted orchestral music pours forth. The penthouse floor is brighter, more grand but still exclusive. Tonight’s gathering is intimate — investors, political donors, European business executives flown in by invitation only.
Lorenzo rests a hand at the small of my back — ginger, barely touching me at all, but guiding me forward with gentlemanly precision.
“If you need anything throughout the night, just give me a shout,” he says.
“Of course,” I reply. “So what is it that you’re gonna need from me tonight?
He thinks about this for a second.
Then:
“Companionship. Conversation. And some who knows how to read a room.”
I resist the urge to smile. “You hired the right person.”
“I know.”
We stroll further into the scene.
People stare.
Not at him — at us.
Whispers begin immediately.
The Orchid.
And Lorenzo De Luca.
A pairing no one expected.
A match too strong to resist.
He senses the attention but doesn’t respond.
I feel it too — but as I said .
“Do you want to be seen with me?” he asks suddenly, quietly.
The question startles me.
“No,” I say, steady. “It’s my job.”
He studies my face for a second.
“It’s more than that,” he said. “Tonight, everyone in this room is going to make an assumption. I want to be certain you’re happy.”
Comfortable.
It doesn’t have a place in my universe.
But he says it as though this is normal.
“I can work with assumptions,” I say.
He nods once. “Good.”
And then — finally — he allows himself to look at me all the way:
The red dress.
The slit.
The way I stand.
The way I breathe.
Not lust.
Not hunger.
Something like…admiration for a beautiful woman who knows she’s beautiful.
He softens his voice.
“It suits you.”
My pulse betrays me.
Just once.
“Thank you,” I manage.
He offers his arm again.
“Ready?”
I take it.
The night has begun.
And the assignment that Victor set for me cools in my grasp.
And for the first time in a long time …
Something tells me this job won’t turn out how Victor expects.
- Writer
