The elevator doors slid open with a soft metallic sigh as Dante Casagrande stepped into the penthouse. The place was dark, except for the warm glow spilling from the kitchen. He set his keys on the console table and shrugged off his jacket, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders after a long night of meetings with investors who enjoyed hearing themselves talk.
Before he could take another step, he heard a voice, soft, hushed, and clipped. Naya's up?
He slowed his pace.
She stood against the kitchen counter with her phone pressed to her ear, speaking in rapid Italian under her breath. But the moment she sensed movement behind her, she jerked upright. Her eyes widened when she saw him.
“Oh Dante,” she said too quickly. “You’re home.”
He raised a brow. “Clearly.”
She ended the call im
