Page 31

Chapter Thirty

Lux

I spend way too much time vegging out on the sofa, pretending to read Vogue. Meanwhile, my internal monologue continues circling back to the same thoughts, the same questions, and getting no answers.

Can I stay with him after all this? What about the baby? But what about the murder plan? But I love him. Is love enough? Blah, blah, blah, on and on.

Sick of myself and my situation, I toss the magazine onto the coffee table and wander around the living room.

The space is huge, decorated by an expert, no doubt. It screams masculinity and money, from the marble floors to the huge L-shaped couch that stretches across much of the room. A TV sits above the fireplace, cleverly designed to look like an abstract painting. Giant floor-to-ceiling windows take up an entire wall, giving me an unobstructed view of the city. I trace my gaze across the park, to the harbor, and over the bridge.

He can see everything from up here, as if it’s his own little empire. I wonder what it feels like to live on top of the world like this. I start with shock when I realize that this is my apartment now, too. Technically, I do live on top of the world. I spin around the room, really seeing it for the first time.

This is my home now and I don’t even know what half of these rooms hold. I cross the living room to the wide hallway. The grand foyer is through the arch on my right, the master bedroom down at the end on my left. Three doors line the hallway between them and a staircase leads up to the second floor.

I bypass the first door, remembering that it’s the guest bedroom where I spent that nightmarish night after Rafael revealed his identity. Instead, I slowly peek into the middle room and discover it’s an extra bathroom—just as beautiful and luxurious as the one in the bedroom. One door left on this floor and I wonder if it’s just another boring bedroom.

When I swing it open, I discover that it’s a library-office combination. A huge wooden desk sits on the far side, framed by another set of sky-high windows. Shelves upon shelves lined with antique-looking books take up the rest of the walls. A thick fur rug and velvet chairs make the room feel much cozier than the ultra-modern living room.

I walk up and down the shelves, scanning book titles. Old medical books, poetry, vintage paperbacks, historical encyclopedias—the shelves are crammed full of variety. I catch a familiar-looking spine and pull the book off the shelf. I take in the beautiful vintage binding of this copy of Pride and Prejudice , turning it over in my hands lovingly.

What better way to take my mind off the fact that my husband is a mafia don who once wanted to kill me than… Jane Austen?

I glance around the room, looking for the perfect cozy place to curl up and escape into Elizabeth Bennet’s world. That’s when I spot it—the slightest outline of a door behind the desk. It’s so seamlessly built into the wall that I wonder if I imagined it. I head toward it, curiosity pushing me forward.

I trail my fingertips against the wall, feeling the raised grooves of a door. That’s weird. Maybe there was a door here once, but they didn’t need it, so they covered it up?

I don’t know a lot about construction, but that sounds realistic enough. Satisfied with my explanation, my mind almost goes back to scouting for a cozy reading place but the painting near the door catches my eye. I study it, wondering why it’s weirding me out.

Sliding a finger down the side of the frame, I realize it’s not flush against the wall. It looks like something is causing it to jut out slightly, stretching the canvas just the tiniest bit.

With trembling hands, I move the painting away, peeking into the gap. I have no idea what I’ll find under there—maybe a secret safe where Rafael stashes his money?

A sleek object mounted to the wall comes into view.

A keypad?

My gaze darts between the keypad and the door outline, putting the pieces together. It’s a secret room, it has to be. There’s no way there’s a hidden door next to a keypad and they’re not related.

The excitement of discovering this secret has me pulling the painting off the wall before I realize that it’s a hidden room in a mafia don’s house.

I step back immediately, staring in horror at the painting in my hands and the keypad on the wall. My mind trips all over itself, running through the possibilities of what’s hidden behind that door. Money? Diamonds? Weapons? People?

Most of my knowledge of the mafia comes from The Sopranos and highly stylized Hollywood movies, but I know those aren’t true to life.

The real mafia world is darker, more depraved than anything they can portray on TV, even with a mature rating.

Goosebumps break out over my skin, sending shivers down my spine. My stomach twists and tumbles at the possibility of discovering hostages hidden behind the door, or murder victims even. Rafael wouldn’t do something like that, would he?

But I knew the answer to that. He’d told me himself last night—he’s killed many people. I stand, frozen in shock and indecision, staring at the door. Why couldn’t I just have spent the day in front of the TV? Why did I have to go exploring?

As terrified as I was, I knew I had to break into that room. If I could save someone’s life, it would all be worth it. I step up to the keypad, studying it closely. Four rows of numbers on a simple plastic facing with a tiny screen above them. Nothing fancy, no fingerprint scanner or additional buttons.

I trace my finger over the screen, and it lights up, showing four X’s.

Okay, it must be a four-digit code. But that still leaves millions and millions of possible combinations.

I tap my finger on my chin, thinking back to any numbers Rafael might have mentioned. An idea strikes me, and I type in 2-9-1-7, Rafael’s elevator code to access the penthouse. The screen flashes three times and resets to the X’s. I try to the opposite, 7-1-9-2, the code to access the rooftop gym and pool. Wrong again.

For a second, I wonder if it functions like an iPhone. If I try again and get it wrong, will I get locked out? Will it alert Rafael that someone’s trying to break in? This train of thought throws me into a panic, and I hastily hang the painting back up and put some distance between myself and the door. I pick up Pride and Prejudice again and wander over to a green velvet armchair.

I slip into it and crack the book open, forcing myself to focus on the words. For the next hour, I play this little game with myself, pretending to read while simultaneously thinking up four-digit codes in my head.

I struggle to control my attention until I finally give up and stand. My body feels like it’s possessed as I float to the door again and remove the painting.

An hour has gone by and Rafael hasn’t called me to lecture me for trying to break into his hidden room, so I assume it doesn’t have an alert system. I shake my head at myself as I activate the screen again.

This is going to lead to bad luck for sure, but at least I’m distracted from my problems.

If I had a secret room with a keypad, what numbers would I use? Probably something highly personal and important to me.

My eyes widen as inspiration strikes. I slowly type in 1-2-2-4. Christmas Eve. Rafael’s mother’s birthday. He had mentioned it offhand, while telling me a story about her. My breath catches as the screen beeps once and the door unlatches softly.

I press my ear to the thin gap, listening for sounds of people being tortured or trained guards coming at me with machine guns. Silence stretches around me, convincing me to pull the door open.

I peek into the dark room and sweep my eyes across a giant wall of screens. A seating area with a low leather sofa flanked by two armchairs faces the screens.

Soft light spills across the room from a single floor lamp, positioned near the sofa. My hand feels around for an overhead light so I can properly take in the room, but I can’t find anything. A secret movie theater room? That’s what’s behind the door?

Terrified to get accidentally locked in, I prop the painting against the door and wander inside. After my imagination had gone so insane with images of dead bodies or stacks of weapons, a movie theater room is almost…wholesome.

I plop down on the sofa and find a remote control stuck in between the cushions.

The fact that it’s a bunch of smaller screens instead of a large theater-style screen is a bit odd, but maybe that’s how rich people watch movies.

I press the power button and watch with bated breath as a patchwork of scenes fills the screen. Five rows of five, twenty-five screens in total. At first, I’m confused, leaning closer to figure out what the heck I’m seeing here.

When I spot The Beanery, the coffee shop where I first met Enzo, I realize I’m staring at security footage. My gaze trails hungrily across the screens, spotting familiar sights across the city. The Velvet Room. Rocky’s Cafe.

My breath catches in my throat as my heart pounds, rattling harder and louder in my chest.

No, there’s no way. I keep scanning, and let out a sigh of relief when I don’t see my building. Of course, he wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t install security cameras to spy on me.

Just as the thought forms, the screens change—a new of set of twenty-five scenes for my viewing pleasure.

I gasp as large red letters flash across the screen: ALERT. Sweat breaks out across my forehead as I grapple for the remote control, convinced I pressed something to break the system. Suddenly, a familiar sight fills the screen.

My apartment. The INSIDE of my apartment. And it’s not empty.

I squint, trying to figure out what’s happening. A tall, dark figure moves from my front door into my living room.

A light switches on.

Vince’s face comes into view.

He looks directly at the camera and smiles.