A bead of sweat slid down my spine.
Snap out of it, Gia. This is for Mum. Pull yourself together.
I threw my shoulders back, tipped my chin up, punched in the code, and pushed the door open.
The seven-bedroom flat on Billionaires’ Row had a mouthwatering view of Central Park. The first floor consisted of the main kitchen, living room, three large bedrooms, and four bathrooms.
Upon purchasing it last year, Tate gutted the modern, futuristic design and vaguely insisted I redecorated it as I saw fit. It was unlike him not to hire the world’s most expensive and prestigious interior design firm, so at the time, I had chalked it up to him wanting to make my workload more impossible and my life more difficult.
But it backfired on him. Designing his flat had been a refuge for me, a way to decompress from my hectic day job and personal woes. I had chosen bold, textured baroque wallpapers and commissioned the artist who painted the murals.
I handpicked the antique pieces, Renaissance paintings, and Gothic furniture myself. Gold-framed mirrors and cathedral-like ceilings. Medieval crown moldings and elaborate trimmings.
It was spectacular, harsh, and dark.
It screamed Tatum Blackthorn and all he stood for.
The flat was featured in the most luxurious design magazines on the planet, hailed as thought-provoking, shocking, and exquisite.
Tate never thanked me for the project.
Taking the curved stairway up to the second floor, I felt my heart beating out of my chest.
On to the third and last floor. The grand ballroom and highest point in Manhattan’s residential properties, bracketed by floor-to-ceiling windows, with a bird’s-eye view of the entire city.
The room was jam-packed with couples swirling on the dance floor. Bright pastel-colored ball gowns swished the floors, and waiters plaited the throngs of people, balancing tall champagne glasses and canapés.
I spotted Cal and Row dancing together, every inch of the loved-up fairy tale they were. Next to them were Rhyland and Dylan, another couple of friends I adored.
Rhy spun her around, and Dylan tossed her head back and laughed without a care in the world. He dipped his head and kissed her neck. It made me stop and smile.
Dylan was a dear friend. Come to think of it, despite Tate being Satan’s spawn, his mates were absolute gems, and I felt deeply connected to all of them.
But it wasn’t them I was looking for tonight. It washim.
A pink champagne flute was thrust into my hand, and I took a large sip, letting the fuzzy liquid wet my parched throat. My eyes roamed the room, trying to find him.
And find him I did.
He stood at the very corner, the golden light of the grand chandelier burnishing the edges of his sculpted face, highlighting his striking features.
He wore his suit like a second skin, his swagger and flair unmatched in a tight-fitting black three-piece with velvet trimmings.
With a rich paisley-printed pocket square and his vintage pocket watch clasped in his hand, my boss looked like the darkest sin and sweetest salvation.
Tate was standing next to the Ferrantes, a new and unwelcome fixture in his life.
I didn’t know what brought them together. The Ferrantes were bona fide members of the New York Mafia. Dodgier than a street cart hot dog.
There was Machiavelli—Vello for short—the father and don, who looked to be in his late sixties, and his two oldest sons, Luca and Achilles. They were tall, dark, dressed to the nines, and entirely terrifying. They always showed up with enough security for five sitting presidents.
I pushed through my discomfort and hurried over to them, carving a path through the dense crowd.
I stood before Tate, waiting to be acknowledged as he spoke to the three men.
His eyes flickered to me fleetingly, unforgivingly cold, before he fixed them back on Vello Ferrante.
Tate was purposefully ignoring me.
