Chapter 4 - Under The Same Roof
The upper floor of the warehouse was nothing like the grimy industrial floor below. It was an ultra-modern, high-security penthouse loft featuring exposed brick, polished dark oak floors, floor-to-ceiling bulletproof glass overlooking the misty river, and state-of-the-art surveillance monitors covering every angle of the block.
Julian threw a pair of fresh gray cotton sweatpants and an oversized cashmere sweater onto the king-sized bed in the main master suite.
“Shower,” he commanded, pointing toward the marble-tiled bathroom. “Get out of those office clothes. Mikhail is cooking something downstairs, and we need to go over the decrypted financial files.”
I clutched the clothes to my chest, staring around the lavish, masculine bedroom. “Where are you sleeping?”
Julian paused at the doorway, turning to look back at me. A slow, mocking smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “Right here, Harper. On this bed.”
“Excuse me? There’s a giant sectional sofa in the living room!”
“And the living room has four exterior window points of entry,” Julian said coldly. “This room has reinforced steel shutters, a panic lock, and a single reinforced doorway. I don’t leave VIPs out of my line of sight when a syndicate contract is out on their heads.” He stepped closer, leaning down until his lips hovered an inch from my ear. “Besides... didn’t you tell Maggie you dreamed about me? Consider this your dream coming true.”
“You are unbearable!” I hissed, slamming the bathroom door in his face and turning the lock with a resounding click.
Inside the luxurious bathroom, I turned on the shower, letting scalding hot water wash away the sweat, terror, and grime of the ambush. As steam filled the room, I stared at my reflection in the fogged mirror. My life had exploded in less than twenty-four hours. Yesterday, I was worrying about rent and an awkward crush. Tonight, I was trapped in a mafia fortress with the most dangerous, intoxicating man in New York City.
When I finished, I pulled on his clothes. The cashmere sweater drowned me, hanging off one shoulder and falling past my mid-thigh, carrying his scent—that intoxicating blend of cedar and smoke.
I unlocked the door and stepped out.
Julian was sitting at the wooden dining table, a half-empty glass of amber bourbon beside a glowing laptop. He had cleaned his wound, a clean white bandage taped neatly across his left deltoid. When he looked up and saw me swimming in his clothes, his eyes flared with pure, raw hunger.
The silence between us grew heavy, thick with unspoken tension.
“Sit,” he said, clearing his throat and gesturing to the chair beside him.
I sat down, pulling the oversized sleeves over my hands. “What did you find in the Redwood files?”
Julian turned the screen toward me. “It’s worse than we thought. Redwood isn’t just skimming. Nikolai Ivanov is using Redwood as a front to wash seventy million dollars in illegal arms shipments through our private equity clearinghouse. Tomorrow night, there’s an elite gala at the Metropolitan Club. Ivanov will be there with his board members.”
“Then give the files to the FBI!” I urged, leaning forward.
Julian laughed, a low, bitter sound. “The FBI has been trying to catch Nikolai for fifteen years. The moment the feds touch this, Ivanov’s inside men will burn the servers, eliminate every witness, and disappear. There’s only one way to destroy him permanently. We attend the gala. We access his personal server on-site during the event.”
“Who is 'we'?” I asked, dread curling in my gut.
Julian leaned across the table, his gray eyes locking onto mine with hypnotic intensity. “You and me, Harper. But to get you into that secure inner sanctum without Ivanov putting a bullet through your skull the second you walk through the doors, you need an untouchable identity.”
May you like
“Which is?”
“My fiancée.”
