Chapter 8 - The Shadow in the Penthouse
The council dismissed us an hour later.
Carlo’s empire was dismantled before breakfast.
His assets were seized.
His lieutenants were forced to swear fealty to Alessandro.
Yet Alessandro didn't celebrate.
He dragged me into his private limousine with a grim expression.
“Who is the Broker?” I asked as the car sped toward Manhattan.
Alessandro stared out the window, his jaw clenched.
“Carlo was a parasite,” Alessandro said quietly. “He didn't have the brains to
organize international smuggling alone.”
“The Broker is the real syndicate head?”
“The Broker controls the east coast ports. He has politicians in Washington in
his pocket.”
“And my father?”
Alessandro looked at me.
His eyes held a sorrow that softened his sharp features.
“Your father wasn't hiding from Carlo, Sophie. He was hiding from the Broker.”
We arrived at Alessandro’s private penthouse overlooking Central Park.
The elevator opened directly into a vast glass-walled living room.
High above the city, the world seemed silent and small.
“You’ll stay here until we clear the docks,” Alessandro said, peeling off his
jacket.
He collapsed onto the leather sofa, closing his eyes in sheer exhaustion.
The blood had seeped through his bandages again.
I walked to the kitchen, fetched a clean towel and a bowl of warm water.
I knelt beside him.
“Sit up,” I said softly.
He opened his dark eyes, watching me.
“You don't have to wait on me, Sophie. You’re not a waitress anymore.”
“I’m cleaning a wound, not serving champagne. Shut up.”
He let out a faint laugh and leaned forward.
I gently peeled back the bloody bandage.
The bullet had gouged a deep furrow across his shoulder muscle.
My fingers were gentle as I dabbed the warm cloth against his skin.
He inhaled sharply, his muscles tensing beneath my touch.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“It doesn't hurt,” he lied.
Our faces were inches apart.
I could see the flecks of gold in his dark irises.
I could feel his steady, warm breath against my forehead.
My heart began to hammer—not from fear, but from something terrifyingly
different.
“Why didn't you let Laurent kill me in the cellar?” I asked quietly.
“Because you were innocent,” he said.
“You’re a mafia boss, Alessandro. You don't care about innocence.”
His hand came up, gently cupping the back of my neck.
His thumb traced the soft skin beneath my jaw.
“I cared the second you spoke back to Camilla,” he murmured.
“You were starving. You were wearing shoes held together with glue.”
“Yet you stood there like an empress and refused to kneel.”
His lips parted slightly.
“I’ve never seen anything more breathtaking in my life.”
My breath caught in my throat.
Before I could move, his lips met mine.
The kiss was fierce, hot, and desperate.
It tasted of salt, whiskey, and danger.
All the terror of the past twenty-four hours dissolved into the heat of his
embrace.
I gripped his strong shoulders, pulling him closer, forgetting who he was,
May you like
forgetting who I was.
Suddenly, a loud crack shattered the glass window behind us.
