Chapter 7 - Forty-Five Floors Above Manhattan
The elevator doors slid open with a soft, pneumatic hiss, revealing a space that felt less like a hotel suite and more like a minimalist art gallery floating in the sky.
Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the entire perimeter of the forty-fifth floor, offering a panoramic, rain-washed view of the Manhattan skyline where the Chrysler Building’s spire pierced the heavy storm clouds like a glowing needle. Warm amber lighting bathed the polished walnut floors, and a sleek, modern fireplace flickered silently against one slate wall.
Clare stood in the center of the room holding a single canvas overnight bag, feeling entirely out of place in her worn wool bathrobe and damp hair.
The private elevator bell chimed again.
Luca stepped out. He had removed his heavy overcoat, leaving him in a crisp charcoal suit shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the lean, corded muscle of his wrists. He didn't look like a man who spent his evenings worrying about corporate real estate spreadsheets; he looked like an apex predator who owned the very air of the city beneath him.
“Dante settled your bag in the master bedroom,” Luca said, walking over to a small wet bar and pouring two glasses of amber liquid without asking. He handed one to Clare, his fingers briefly brushing hers. The skin-to-skin contact sent a sharp, unexpected jolt straight up her arm.
“This is excessive, Luca,” Clare said, looking around the sprawling, hyper-secure suite as she took a cautious sip of the scotch. It burned smooth and warm down her throat. “I could have checked into a Marriott.”
“The Marriott doesn't have biometric elevator authorization, bulletproof laminated glass, or a twenty-four-hour security detail vetted by former federal intelligence agents,” Luca noted calmly, leaning his hip against the marble kitchen island. He studied her face, his dark eyes lingering for a fraction of a second on the faint, fading bruises still visible beneath the cuff of her sleeve. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Did he damage anything else before Dante intervened?”
Clare shook her head, looking away toward the glowing city lights. “Just my illusions. Turns out fourteen months of engagement can be wiped out by a single bank statement and a pair of hands wrapped around my wrist.”
“Evan Mercer is a mid-level investment director riding the coattails of his father’s old firm,” Luca said softly, his voice devoid of anger, sounding more like an executioner reading a ledger. “By tomorrow morning, his firm’s internal audit committee will receive an anonymous forensic report detailing the unregistered short positions he’s been taking using client liquidity funds. By tomorrow afternoon, he won't have a job, an apartment, or the financial backing to harass anyone ever again.”
Clare froze, her glass halfway to her mouth. She stared at Luca in stunned disbelief. “You investigated him?”
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“When an employee who manages my multi-billion-dollar portfolio shows up to work with bruises on her wrists, I tend to look into her domestic arrangements,” Luca replied smoothly. “It’s called protecting my assets.”
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