I suck in abreath. “Isn’t that the?—”
“The penthouse,” she finishes with a pursed lip. She’s clearly not happy about it.
“Why?”
She shrugs and there’s a sparkle to her eye. “That’s where Il Diavolo wants you to go. Boss’s orders.”
I close my hand over the card. “Um, okay.”
“Take the private elevator,” she explains. “It’s the only one that goes all the way up. When the doors open, turn left and walk down the hall. Il Diavolo’s apartment is on the right.”
She turns then, dismissing me.
I wish I knew why she disliked me so much. I felt it instantly, when I first arrived at the club, and it hasn’t let up. But I don’t have the capacity to worry about it now—not when I have an actualpenthouseto get to.
Above the city and the throbbing bass of the club, the highest level of the building is soothingly calm and quiet. I let myself into the apartment and stand as the door closes softly behind me, with my jaw almost hitting the floor.
It’s the most decadent apartment I’ve ever seen.
It’s open plan but doesn’t feel empty. Cabinetry, flooring and surfaces are dark but don’t feel oppressive. The scent of warm wood and deep spice lingers in the conditioned air, and low lighting softens the sharp edges and the city view beyond the windows.
I carefully remove my sneakers and leave them by the door, then walk to the window, pressing my nose to the glass. The lights below move slowly, glowing brightly. Inside the reinforced glass, it’s peaceful and mesmerizing.
The sound of a throat clearing makes me spin around, my heart shooting up my goddamn throat.
“Fiero,” I gasp. “You scared me.”
He keeps his eyes on me as he drops a bag to the floor and throws a set of keys on the side. Then he walks slowly toward me, my heartbeat pounding harder with each step. There’s a look in his eye that I can’t interpret.
He stops close and goes to rest a hand on my shoulder, but seems to remember my one condition and thinks better of it.
“Come sit down.”
I tip my chin trying to read his expression. It gives nothing away but I have a horrible feeling something is very, very wrong.
He sits me down on the couch, remaining at a small distance.
“What is it Fiero? You’re frightening me.”
He doesn’t hold back. “I know who abused you.”
My throat shrivels up. He just came out and said it, like he could ever know such a thing.
I’m so stunned I can’t even open my mouth to tell him to go to hell, which is exactly what I want to do.
I stare at him until he gets up, moves to the kitchen area and returns with some water. I take a sip then stare at the glass when I speak.
“How could you know? It’s impossible.”
There’s a long pause that only ends when I look up.
“Because your abuser took photographs without your knowledge and gave them to the Irish to blackmail me with.”
The room wobbles and there’s a sound of glass smashing in the distance.
Fiero is suddenly on his feet, instructing me to not move. I stare into an empty space as he shifts around me. I’m not sure what he’s doing because all I can think about is who could have taken photographs of me. It doesn’t make any sense.
My voice sounds too delicate for this conversation. “Photographs? That’s not possible. The man who touched me didn’t take photographs. I would have remembered that.”