Page 164 of Rosetti Family New York

"Chilly," he repeats, and I can't tell if he's about to laugh or call me an ambulance.

I pick up the jacket. It smells like leather and woodsmoke. I shove my arms into the sleeves. It's warm. And heavy. It carries his body heat, his scent enveloping me in a strangely intimate way. I try to ignore how the lining feels against my skin, still warm from him, how just wearing his jacket makes me feel both protected and utterly vulnerable.

"Better?" He's teasing now.

"Don't you have any other girls to annoy?" I ask, catching up to him.

"Not tonight."

He starts walking again, not waiting to see if I'll follow.

The rest of the way is quiet. The streetlights flicker overhead. An old woman walks a small, yappy dog on the other side of the street. It's so normal it almost feels bizarre. My heartbeat still hasn't slowed, and I'm acutely aware of him beside me, his measured strides, the way he scans our surroundings, the heat that seems to radiate from him despite the freezing air.

"Are we there yet?" I ask after what seems like hours.

My legs are rubber, my breath coming in foggy bursts.

"You really don't know where you are, do you?"

He says it like it's some kind of weakness, like not having a sense of direction is worse than running away from a murder. My cheeks flush, but whether from embarrassment or the cold, I can't tell.

We round another corner, and I realize we're somehow in the middle of SoHo. The man buzzes into the nicest building on the strip and holds the door aside, giving me one last chance to back out.

"You coming?" he asks.

It's not the run-down dump I was expecting. Massive, for this area. Stark. A damn fortress nestled among Bohemian cafes.

"I don't think so." This suddenly seems like a terrible idea. My body is half frozen, my mind completely jammed, and I'm walking into the apartment of a man who may have just killed my best friend. I definitely shouldn't do this.

The man raises an eyebrow and tosses me a glance over his shoulder. "Suit yourself."

Just as the door is closing, I reach out and catch it, tugging it open, then I follow the T-shirt muscle man into his fortress. Our fingers brush accidentally as we both reach for the door, and a jolt of electricity shoots up my arm. He notices it too. I see his jaw tighten, the slight catch in his breath. Our eyes meet for a heartbeat too long.

The door closes behind me with a soft click.

I'm acutely aware that I've just willingly trapped myself with a dangerous stranger. Even more disturbing is the realization that, despite everything—despite Maddy, despite the gun at his waist, despite his admission that he's a killer—I feel safer with him than I have all night. The thought should terrify me. Instead, it sends a different kind of shiver down my spine.

3

Sloane

The apartment is like a part of him, huge, simple, and built to handle anything that comes its way. But there's another side too: a kind of history hidden in the worn floors and a surprising warmth in the soft glow of the lamps. It smells of old leather with a hint of tobacco. Maybe he's more than just a hard-edged night walker.

I soak in every little detail, grounding my fear, even though I should feel terrified. Instead, he seems like the solution, not the problem.

"You live here alone?" I ask.

He glances back at me, and for a moment, I get lost in those pale, watchful eyes. My pulse flutters when his gaze locks with mine, and I'm struck by how deep the blue really is. This close, I can catch his scent, something woodsy and sharp, with undertones of expensive cologne that probably costs more than my rent.

"Nope. I don't live here at all. This is just my city pad, for when I need to get away from my family."

His family. The thought echoes dimly inside my skull. He has a family. He probably has a name, too, though I haven't squeezed that out of him yet. I'm hyperaware of his presence, of the space he takes up in the room. The air feels charged between us, static electricity waiting for the right moment to spark.

"Who are you?" I ask.

"Rafaele Rosetti," he says, peering at me, monitoring my reaction.

The name ripples through me. Rosetti. Even I know that name. My dad would know it better, from his days on the force. My mouth goes dry, and I swallow hard.