Cannon Freeman’sapartment is nothing like I anticipated. First of all, I expected Warren to take us back to a building near the club, but he doesn’t. We drive a half hour across town, and instead of stopping in front of a ritzy building with a fancy address, he parks in front of a pizza shop in Little Italy.
“Thanks, Warren. We won’t need you for the rest of the night. I’ll text you about tomorrow.”
As soon as the door shuts on the Bentley, it disappears, and we’re left standing on a sidewalk amidst the scent of oregano, basil, and tomatoes, with lights strung along awnings, lending a hint of romance to the atmosphere.
“My place is upstairs.”
Somehow, I find my fingers twining into Cannon’s as he pulls me along behind him to a heavy red steel door.
Instantly, all I can picture is Christian Grey’s red room, and a flush, like I’ve just chugged a carafe of wine, steals over me.Nothing about this feels fake. It feels as real as a date gets.
Thankfully, Cannon is busy unlocking the three dead bolts with a key and opening the door rather than noticing I’m overheated with thoughts of him telling me I’m going to be a good girl for him or I’ll be punished.
Oh my God. Where did that come from?
My brain seems to have been hijacked from my own control, because I’m not feeling like myself at all right now. I force myself to note every single detail about the place, from the gray-painted concrete entryway to the wide opening of the industrial elevator.
“It’s not fancy, but it’s mine,” he says as he moves the gates and waves me into the car.
“The elevator’s yours?” I say, joking, but my question falls flat when he nods and unlocks the black metal gate.
“Yeah, the whole building is. It was the only way I could save Geno from getting evicted. I’m pretty fucking partial to his pizza, so I did what I had to do.”
I gape at Cannon. The cost of owning any apartment in New York City is pretty much astronomical, but to own a whole building?
Holy shit.
“You own a building?”
“A few buildings, actually.” He punches a long code into a security panel in the elevator, and then we move upward. “When the bottom fell out of the real estate market along with the financial crash, I made some smart investments.”
He meets my gaze, and I’m sure my shock is written all over my face.
“You do know that I used to be the COO of Karas International and worked with Creighton Karas for over a decade, right? Randi would’ve had to tell you that, especially because it’s no secret.”
“Yeah, but ... I didn’t realize ...” I trail off as we slowly rise toward the top floor.
“That I might’ve been a damn good businessman? Because I am. It’s all right, though. I’m used to being underestimated. I prefer it most of the time. It’s much easier to maneuver around people when everyone just thinks you’re skating through life on connections rather than on your merit.”
In that moment, I see Cannon Freeman in a completely different light than I have since the day I walked into the Upper Ten. He’s not just the illegitimate son of one of the most notorious mobsters in modern times. He’sreal.
And that’s insanely dangerous.
When the elevator rocks to a stop, he opens the gate once more and indicates for me to precede him to exit. I step onto a wood floor of wide planks stained an ashy gray. The worn grooves in the wood tell me that it’s probably original to the building but has been cared for in recent years. There are two heavy metal doors, both painted black, and the interior walls are a grayish, almost whitewashed brick.
Cannon points to one door. “Emergency stairs, if the elevator isn’t working or you can’t get into it.” I assume he adds the last part because he had to unlock the gate for us to even use the elevator. “But the emergency stairs are locked on the stairwell side. You can always get down, but you can’t get up unless you’ve been invited.”
It’s not hard to imagine what kind of security concerns he deals with on a regular basis to make sure his home is locked up tight. As Dom Casso’s bastard son, he has to feel like he walks around with a target on his back at all times.
“Makes sense,” I say and turn toward the other door. “And I assume this is your place?”
“Yeah, this is home.” He uses another key to open the dead bolts and leans inside to stop the beeping of the alarm.
When he pushes open the door, I’m not sure what to expect. Maybe something glass and metal and übermodern and masculine, but that’s not the case at all. It’s absolutely stunning, to be sure, but also completely charming.
The same whitewashed brick lines the walls. Ductwork, painted charcoal gray to match the steel beams, is exposed beneath the soaring white ceiling. The same scarred ash-gray plank floor extends inside, covered by what look like handwoven rugs. A gray fabric sectional curves around a cement table, and some of the cushions have permanent indents from wear.
It’s not new. It’s not chic. But it’s perfect. And he’s right. It looks like home, which is a far cry from my sterile, bland apartment that serves only as a staging ground for my mission.