Bloody Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - Sophie Lark Page 0,45

the top ten floors are a bare skeleton of steel, open to the wide air and the thousand-foot drop down to the ground.

To the east of the building you can see the flat expanse of the lake. To the west, the view is blocked by a massive roof-top billboard. The images on the billboard rotate—right now it’s showing a Coca-Cola ad with a soda bottle the size of an Olympic swimming pool.

We’ve purchased that building too, so the first thing I’m gonna do is rip down the billboard. Then I’ll have a clear view over to Russell Square Park instead.

“There you are,” a female voice says.

I turn around.

Abigail Green is standing behind me, holding her clipboard and a pen. She’s looking at me in her usual way—sly and smiling, like we’ve got a secret.

We don’t. I’m using Ms. Green to lease the offices in this building because her commercial real estate firm is the largest and most prestigious in Chicago. I don’t give a fuck that she’s 5’10, blonde, and built like a porn star—though I’m sure that helped her build her client base when she started.

Abigail is smart. We’ve gone over all the numbers for what types of businesses I want in the building, the ideal lease lengths, and how much we should charge. Even though we’re a few months out from completion, we’re already at 78 percent capacity. So she’s done a great job. It’s the . . . extra attention I could live without.

She wanted to meet here today instead of at her office. She said she wanted to see the building in person now that it’s getting close to being done.

“So what do you think?” I ask her, nodding my head toward the floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall view of the lake. I’m standing right at the edge. There’s nothing stopping me from stepping out into clear, empty space.

“It’s gorgeous!” Abigail says. She shivers though, seeing how I lean against the bare metal struts. “I take it you’re not afraid of heights.”

“No,” I say. “I’m not.”

She walks a little closer to me—though not too close. She bites her lip, looking me up and down.

“I guess a guy your size isn’t afraid of much of anything.”

“No,” I say flatly. “But it doesn’t have anything to do with size.”

Fear preys on people who have something to lose.

I don’t give a fuck about much these days. I put all this time and effort into this complex—but the truth is, it was Nero’s idea. He wants the Gallos to be the richest family in Chicago.

I threw myself into the work, because that’s what I do. I steer this family. I execute the plans. I make sure everything goes off perfectly—no mistakes, no failures. I keep everyone safe, happy, and successful.

And when it’s done, I feel exactly the same as I did before . . . empty.

“I’ve got two more lease agreements for you to sign,” Abigail says.

I cross the bare, empty floor to take her clipboard. These office suites will be plush and luxurious once we get the windows, the drywall, and the carpeting in place. For now it’s an open box, with streaks of plaster and dust across the floor, and a few scattered screws.

I scan the agreements, then sign at the bottom.

Abigail is watching my face the whole time, while she toys with the bangle on her left wrist.

“It’s not often I look up to a man,” she says. “Especially not when I’m wearing heels.”

She’s got on sky-high stilettos, nylons, a knee-length skirt with a tasteful slit up the back, a silk blouse, and expensive-looking earrings. I can smell her floral perfume and the slightly-waxy scent of her red lipstick. She’s standing very close to me.

There’s nothing unattractive about Abigail.

At least, not to a normal person.

The problem is, I have a narrow and specific definition of what I find attractive. It was formed a long time ago, and it hasn’t changed since. Abigail doesn’t fit it. Almost no one does.

I hand the clipboard back to her. Abigail takes it, but she doesn’t move from where she’s standing. She trails her index finger, with its perfectly manicured red fingernail, down the outside of my arm. Then she lightly grips my bicep.

“Is that the kind of muscle you get swinging a hammer?” she purrs. “Or do you get your workout some other way . . .”

It’s obvious what Abigail wants.

I could give it to her—I’ve done it before, plenty of times, with other women. I could turn her around, yank up her skirt,