Chapter 3 - Stepping Into the Devil’s Penthouse with Mud on My Soles
The ride from the restaurant to downtown Seattle was conducted in complete, suffocating silence.
Khloe sat pressed against the far door of the armored Mercedes Maybach, her wet coat tucked tightly around her knees. Outside the tinted bulletproof glass, the city lights blurred into streaks of gold and ruby across the wet streets. Up front, Paulie drove with two hands firmly on the wheel, his eyes constantly scanning the rear-view mirrors for tailing vehicles.
Dante sat beside her, reviewing documents on an encrypted tablet. The cool blue light of the screen illuminated the sharp contours of his face and the pale line of the scar over his eyebrow. He didn't look at her once.
They pulled into a subterranean parking garage beneath a gleaming glass skyscraper on 2nd Avenue. The iron gates clicked shut behind them with a heavy, hydraulic slam that sounded like the door of a bank vault closing.
“Out,” Dante said, shutting his tablet.
Khloe stepped onto the polished concrete floor. Her muddy sneakers squeaked loudly against the pristine surface. Two armed guards dressed in tactical black suits snapped to attention, lowering their heads as Dante walked past.
“Sir,” they chorused.
Dante didn’t acknowledge them. He walked toward a private elevator with keycard-and-biometric clearance, holding the door open with one broad hand. Khloe scurried inside, keeping her back pinned to the mirror-lined wall.
The elevator climbed sixty stories in near silence. When the doors finally slid open with a soft chime, Khloe’s breath caught in her throat.
The penthouse was a cathedral of glass, black marble, and dark oak. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the entire perimeter, offering a panoramic, dizzying view of the storm-tossed Puget Sound and the glowing Seattle skyline. Modern abstract art in deep crimson and charcoal hung on the walls, illuminated by recessed spotlights.
A woman in her late fifties, with silver hair pulled into a severe bun and wearing a tailored navy dress, stood waiting in the grand foyer with a stack of plush white towels.
“Good evening, Mr. Varga,” the woman said politely.
“Mrs. Gable,” Dante replied, shedding his damp coat and handing it to her. “This is Khloe. She will be staying in the east master suite. Dispose of her current clothes. Burn them if necessary. Have the stylist from Bergdorf here by eight tomorrow morning.”
“Right away, sir.” Mrs. Gable turned to Khloe with a warm, maternal smile that looked entirely out of place in this fortress of glass and steel. “Come along, dear. Let’s get you out of those wet rags and into a warm bath before you catch pneumonia.”
Khloe glanced at Dante. He had already walked toward the expansive bar in the great room, pouring himself two fingers of dark liquor without looking back.
“Follow her,” he said, his back turned to her. “Dinner will be served in your quarters. Do not wander the hallways after midnight. My night guards do not ask questions before they draw their weapons.”
Khloe swallowed her pride, nodding weakly. “Thank you, Mr. Varga.”
Mrs. Gable led her down a wide, carpeted corridor lined with brass sconces into the east wing. The guest suite was larger than Khloe’s entire former apartment. It featured a king-sized bed dressed in ivory Egyptian cotton, a private fireplace crackling with birch wood, and an adjoining bathroom clad in white Carrara marble with a deep soaking tub.
“I’ve laid out some fresh silk pajamas and a robe for you, Miss Bennett,” Mrs. Gable said gently, setting the fresh towels on the marble counter. “There is lavender oil by the basin if your nerves are troubled.”
Khloe stood awkwardly in the center of the bathroom, dirty water still pooling around her worn shoes. “Mrs. Gable... does he... does Mr. Varga do this often?”
The older woman paused at the doorway, her expression softening with genuine sympathy. “In the twelve years I have managed this estate, child, Mr. Varga has never brought a woman into this private residence. Not once. You are here for a reason. Keep your wits about you, follow his rules, and you will find that a devil’s word is often more trustworthy than a saint’s.”
With a gentle click, the bathroom door closed, leaving Khloe alone.
She stripped off the filthy, torn clothes—the physical remnants of her two-year nightmare with Jared—and dropped them straight into the chrome wastebasket. When she stepped into the steaming water, a long, ragged sob finally tore from her chest.
She scrubbed her skin until it was pink, washing away the smell of the alley, the cheap gin, and the rain. For the first time in three months, she didn't have to listen for the creak of a fire escape or sleep with a rusted bat clenched in her white-knuckled fist.
An hour later, wrapped in a plush robe, Khloe sat by the roaring fireplace eating roasted sea bass and asparagus from a silver tray. The food was richer than anything she had ever tasted.
When she finished, she walked over to the reinforced floor-to-ceiling window. Down below, Seattle looked tiny, insignificant, like an illuminated circuit board. Somewhere down in that darkness, Jared was lying in a hospital bed with a shattered knee, nursing his bruised ego and cursing her name.
A sudden, quiet knock at the connecting door startled her.
Khloe pulled the robe tighter around her neck. “Yes?”
The door opened an inch. Dante stood in the threshold, having changed into a loose charcoal sweater and dark slacks. His hair was slightly damp, his expression unreadable.
“A courier just delivered this to the lobby desk,” he said, extending a black velvet box toward her.
Khloe walked forward cautiously and took the box. She pressed the spring latch.
Inside, resting against midnight-blue velvet, sat an emerald-cut diamond ring surrounded by a halo of platinum. The center stone was so clear and massive it seemed to draw all the ambient firelight into its facets.
“It belonged to my grandmother,” Dante said, his voice quiet, almost detached. “Put it on your left ring finger. Tomorrow morning at nine, the city clerk will arrive to notarize the civil certificate. By noon, the entire Pacific Northwest underworld will know you belong to Dante Varga.”
Khloe lifted the heavy ring. It felt cold against her skin.
May you like
“What if they come after me to hurt you?” she asked, looking up into his dark eyes.
Dante’s jaw tightened, the scar on his brow twitching slightly. “Let them try. They will find out what happens when you touch what belongs to the house of Varga.”
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