tell her. “Just try to relax.”
“I think,” she echoes as we climb into the car. “Okay, mysterious.”
My hand strays to my suit jacket pocket. I try to imagine what she’s going to say, how she’s going to look, but my mind goes blank. It’s like I’ve spent so long trying to keep my distance from a woman, it just refuses to conceive of this happening.
Finally, we pull up outside the high-rise apartment building. As I step from the car, I instinctively scan the street, checking my guards. There is traffic and people everywhere, though, and even the Irish aren’t stupid enough to risk it in a place like this. I take Hazel’s hand and lead her to the private elevator that goes to the penthouse suite.
She’s giving me looks the whole time, her green eyes missing nothing. She knows something is about to happen. I reach into my pocket and take out the keys, spinning them around my forefinger.
“I can’t keep you prisoner anymore,” I say as we walk toward the door. “So I decided to buy this place for you. It has round-the-clock security. I haven’t decorated it yet. I thought you’d like to do that yourself.”
I unlock the door and walk into the room. There’s a pit in my throat. It’s only a matter of time before she says it.
“Do I have to stay here?” she asks, moving up behind me. She wraps her arms around my waist and lays her cheek between my shoulder blades. The question I feared comes. I try to harden myself. “If I wanted to leave, would you let me? I mean, if I’m not your prisoner anymore, you would, right?”
I reach down and touch her hands, squeezing them tightly. “I would,” I whisper. “It wouldn’t be smart, not with the Irish still out there. But I don’t want to keep you against your will anymore.”
“Carlo,” she whispers. “Look at me.”
I turn, taking her hands in mine. There are tears in her eyes, but they don’t fall. They cling to her eyelashes. “This is amazing,” she says. “It’s been the one black spot between us, the fact that I’m technically a prisoner. It means a lot to me. But—I don’t want to stay here. If I’m really free, then I choose to stay at the mansion. I like seeing Alda and Emily every day. I like being close to you.”
We collapse into a passionate kiss, hugging each other tightly. I’m so caught up in it, this moment, this threshold, that I almost ignore my cell phone ringing. But I can’t, of course.
“Sorry,” I mutter, answering.
“Carlo,” Nario says. “I’m heading out to oversee that delivery we talked about. Pepperoni with jalapeños.”
“Yeah, I’ll be right over.”
I hang up and kiss Hazel on her forehead, my body roaring at me to stay, unable to wipe this smile off my face.
“I have to go. Ubert will drive you home.”
“Home.” She smiles. “That sounds about right. Carlo … there’s something else.”
I stop in the doorway, half turning. Suddenly her face is tight.
“Yes?” I ask.
She hesitates, then smiles broadly. “Your shirt is untucked. I won’t have my man looking messy at work.”
I grin as I head down the hallway, tucking my shirt in. But as I ride the elevator down, I think about that look in her eyes. There’s a war happening deep inside me: Hazel on one side and all my old holdups on the other. I thought I ended that today, just now, but that look … Or am I reading too much into it? Am I just scared to let myself truly go?
Because this business is dangerous, no matter what I feel, and trust gets men killed. But somehow squaring that with how I feel about Hazel is impossible. It’s like those two facts exist in different universes.
Maybe trusting is wrong, maybe feelings are wrong, but trusting and having feelings for Hazel can’t be wrong.
Can it?
I fail at pushing her from my thoughts as I walk into the bar, nod to the bartender, and head into the back. Nario is already there, sitting on a stool with his head resting against the wall, idly smoking.
“Didn’t realize you’d started again,” I say.
He grins. “Desperate times.” Stubbing it out on the bottom of his boot, he says, “Been looking for this Colleen Sweeney. There’s no sign of her. No birth certificate. No photographs. No word in Irish bars or restaurants that they ever saw her. So either the Elephant really does keep his woman trussed up like cattle—”
“Or