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He doesn’t answer, just smirks. As if on cue, the door opens and a man in a butler’s uniform enters. He sets a tray on the desk—a glass, a pitcher of ice water, and a first aid kit.
The sight of water makes my throat constrict painfully. Condensation beads on the pitcher, and I stare at it like a dying woman in the desert. I could drain it in one go, not caring if it’s laced with poison. At least I’d die hydrated.
“Thank you, Timmy.” The butler nods and leaves. Dominic pours water into the glass and hands it to me. “That’s five.”
“What?” I frown, accepting the glass—the water rushes down my throat. He refills it immediately.
“Your questions,” he clarifies. “And to answer your last one, no. I don’t think you’re stupid.”
“But that’s not—“
“Ah, ah,” he cuts me off with a wave of his finger. “You had your time—you asked your questions. It’s my turn.”
“Fine, but I’m not telling where he is. I couldn’t even if I wanted to—I don’t know.” Dominic nods, picking up the first aid kit. He opens it and removes gauze and antiseptic. The focused look onhis face almost makes me laugh—as if he gives a damn whether I bleed to death.
He takes my glass and sets it aside before reaching for my chin. I jolt backward as his fingers make contact. The touch sends electricity through me—his skin both soft and callused. Memories surface—his hands on my body that night at the gala, caressing me like something precious. Fear and adrenaline mixed with his proximity and my body betrays me in the worst way possible.. What the fuck. My nipples harden—heat pools low in my belly, and I despise myself for it. I’m responding to his touch while my brain screams danger.
It’s just biology—nothing more.
But I can’t stop the hot flush spreading across my cheeks, and I squeeze my thighs together, desperate to silence the ache between them. Please, God, don’t let him notice.
“Stay still, Alessa,” he commands, breaking into my thoughts. He reaches for me again, and this time I don’t pull away. He presses a clean gauze pad against the wound, applying just enough pressure to stop the bleeding without causing pain. “Why don’t you tell me the last conversation you had with Marco Russo.”
“That’s not a question,” I whisper. He’s too close. His scent overwhelms me—sweet, cedar wood, nothing like the basement’s stench.
“Okay—what’s the last conversation you had with your father?”
“I asked him to meet for coffee. But he said he was busy.”
He tears open an antiseptic wipe, the sharp medicinal smell cutting through the air as he cleans the wound. I focus, staying perfectly still, trying desperately to ignore his touch.
For just a moment, his fingers pause—a flash of something raw. His breath catches slightly, his throat working as he swallows hard. Then it’s gone. But I saw it. A crack in his armor.
A glimpse of the man beneath the monster.
“When was this?”
“I don’t know, almost a year ago.”
I don’t mention how we fell apart, how he spent years keeping me out of this life—only to shove me toward it now. Funny how that works. After all that talk about protecting me, now it’s about protecting his connections. Maybe he thinks helping me blow the lid off some of my biggest stories, I owe him…I don’t know, but some secrets are mine to keep.
“Is he in New York?”
“I don’t know.”
Dominic covers the wound with a bandage, smoothing it carefully over my skin. He steps back, examining his handiwork.
“Is that the truth?”
“Is that really your question?”
“Yes.” He narrows his eyes, studying me.
“Then, yes, I don’t know if he’s in New York. If he’s smart, he’s long gone. Otherwise, he’s still there. Maybe right under your noses.”
“How many properties do you have in New York?”
“Aside from that penthouse you broke into, I’m also starting to invest in a country house in the Hamptons.”