I had been in Adrian Moretti's penthouse for exactly twelve minutes when I decided that I hated rich people.
Not ordinary rich people who complained about the price of coffee or bought expensive handbags they would never use. No, I hated the kind of rich people who owned entire floors of buildings, kept armed men outside their bedrooms, and had doors that required fingerprints just to enter the kitchen.
And Adrian Moretti was apparently the king of them all.
His penthouse was enormous, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering city. The furniture looked as though it cost more than my entire apartment, and everything was decorated in black, gray, and gold.
It was beautiful.
It was also a prison.
A very luxurious prison.
"Are you going to stand there all night?" Marco asked.
I turned toward him.
The man had followed me from the hotel, and I was beginning to suspect that he had been assigned to ruin the rest of my life.
"Where's the exit?"
"Behind you."
"Funny. I meant the exit that doesn't have armed men standing beside it."
Marco sighed. "Miss, please stop making this difficult."
"Then stop kidnapping people."
"I'm not kidnapping you."
"Oh, really? Then why can't I leave?"
He opened his mouth, closed it again, and looked toward the ceiling as though asking God for patience.
I smiled sweetly.
"That's what I thought."
Before he could answer, the elevator doors opened.
My smile vanished.
Adrian stepped out, having removed his suit jacket. His white shirt was rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms and a watch that probably cost more than my rent for the next ten years.
He looked irritatingly perfect.
I hated that, too.
His gaze moved from Marco to me.
"Why is she still standing by the door?"
"She's trying to escape, boss."
"Of course she is."
Adrian loosened his collar and walked toward the kitchen.
"Let her."
I blinked.
"What?"
He didn't look back.
"You heard me."
Marco immediately stepped aside.
I stared at the open space between me and the elevator.
Was this a trick?
Was there a sniper waiting downstairs? A secret army? Perhaps a trapdoor that would drop me into a basement full of people who had annoyed Adrian during the week.
I wasn't taking any chances.
I walked toward the elevator.
One step.
Two steps.
Three—
"By the way," Adrian called from the kitchen, "the Valenti family has already circulated your photograph."
I froze.
He continued as though discussing the weather.
"They know your name, where you work, and where you live. If you leave this building, my men won't be responsible for what happens to you."
My fingers curled into fists.
I turned slowly.
"You could have mentioned that before I walked halfway across the room."
"You didn't ask."
I wanted to throw something at his head.
Preferably something expensive.
"You're a horrible person."
"I've been told."
"And you enjoy it."
"Occasionally."
He poured himself a glass of water and leaned against the kitchen counter.
"Now, are you going to come here, or would you prefer to argue with the elevator?"
I looked at Marco.
He gave me a sympathetic expression that somehow made me even angrier.
With a defeated groan, I marched into the kitchen.
Adrian gestured toward a chair.
"Sit."
"I can stand."
"Then stand."
I remained standing for approximately three seconds before my aching feet betrayed me. I dropped into the chair with as much dignity as I could manage.
Adrian's mouth twitched.
"Comfortable?"
"Thrilled."
He placed a glass of water in front of me.
I stared at it suspiciously.
"What?"
"Is it poisoned?"
He looked at the glass, then at me.
"If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't waste perfectly good water."
"That's reassuring."
I took a cautious sip.
He sat opposite me, his expression becoming more serious.
"I need to know exactly what you saw tonight."
"I already told you. I saw a man get shot."
"Did you recognize him?"
"No."
"Did you hear anything?"
I hesitated.
Adrian noticed immediately.
"What is it?"
"Nothing."
"You're a terrible liar."
"And you're a terrible host."
He leaned back in his chair.
"Try me."
I looked down at my hands.
There was no point lying. He would find out eventually, and I had a feeling that Adrian Moretti wasn't a man who appreciated being kept in the dark.
"I heard one of them mention a shipment," I admitted. "Something about it arriving before midnight. Then another man said the Valenti family couldn't be allowed to take it."
Adrian's expression changed.
Only slightly, but enough to make my stomach tighten.
"What else?"
"One of them said a name."
"Whose name?"
I swallowed.
"Daniel."
For several seconds, Adrian didn't move.
Then he placed his glass on the table with deliberate care.
"Did they say anything else about him?"
"No. Why? Who is Daniel?"
Adrian ignored the question.
"Did anyone see you?"
"I don't know."
"Think carefully."
I closed my eyes, forcing myself to remember.
The parking garage had been dark. I remembered the gunshot, the smell of gasoline, and the sound of hurried footsteps.
Then I remembered something else.
A man turning toward my hiding place.
His face had been partially obscured by the shadows, but I was certain he had looked directly at me.
"One of them did," I whispered.
Adrian's jaw tightened.
"Did he see your face?"
"I think so."
He stood abruptly and pulled out his phone.
"Marco."
The bodyguard appeared in the doorway almost immediately.
"Double the security. No one leaves this building without authorization. Get me everything you can find on the Valenti shipment, and I want to know who Daniel is."
"Understood."
Marco disappeared.
I looked up at Adrian.
"You look worried."
"I'm not."
"You look like you're about to murder someone."
"That's a fairly normal expression for me."
I almost laughed.
Almost.
Then his words sank in.
"Wait. You actually murder people?"
Adrian looked at me for a long moment.
"Do you want an honest answer?"
"No. I want a comforting lie."
"Then you've come to the wrong man."
I stared at him, suddenly remembering every rumor I'd ever heard about the Moretti family.
My father had once told me that men like Adrian didn't become powerful by playing fair. They became powerful because everyone else was too afraid to challenge them.
I had thought he was exaggerating.
Now, sitting across from the most dangerous man I'd ever met, I wasn't so sure.
"Why are you helping me?" I asked quietly.
Adrian's expression became unreadable again.
"Because you walked into my room."
"That makes no sense."
"It doesn't have to."
"Did you know those men were going to chase me?"
"No."
"Then why do you care?"
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.
"Because the moment they saw you with me, your survival became my responsibility."
I frowned.
"That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
"Perhaps."
"And what happens when you get tired of being responsible for me?"
His gaze held mine.
"I don't get tired of things that belong to me."
My heart gave an uncomfortable little jump.
I immediately crushed the feeling.
"I don't belong to you."
"Noted."
"Good."
"Would you like dinner?"
I stared at him.
"What?"
"Dinner. Food. Something people eat when they're hungry."
"I know what dinner is!"
"Then we're making progress."
I grabbed the nearest napkin and threw it at him.
He caught it effortlessly.
And then, the bastard laughed.
Twenty minutes later, I was sitting at a dining table large enough to host a royal wedding.
A plate of pasta sat in front of me, accompanied by a salad, freshly baked bread, and a glass of juice.
I hadn't realized how hungry I was until the first bite nearly made me emotional.
Adrian sat across from me, answering messages on his phone.
For the first time that evening, he wasn't watching me.
I should have been grateful.
Instead, I found myself studying him.
There was something unsettling about the way he moved. Every gesture was controlled, every expression carefully measured. Even when he looked relaxed, he seemed prepared for something terrible to happen.
I wondered what had made him like that.
Then I remembered who he was.
Curiosity was dangerous.
Especially when it concerned men like Adrian Moretti.
"Stop staring," he said without looking up.
I nearly choked on my pasta.
"I wasn't staring!"
"Of course not."
"I was wondering how someone so arrogant managed to survive this long."
He finally looked at me.
"Luck."
"That's it?"
"No. But the rest of the story is rather boring."
"Let me guess. You were born rich, inherited a criminal empire, and spent your childhood terrorizing innocent people."
"Actually, I was born into a family that expected me to survive."
Something about the way he said it made me pause.
For the briefest moment, the arrogance disappeared.
In its place was something colder.
Something tired.
Then his phone rang.
He answered immediately.
"What?"
I watched his expression darken.
"When?"
Silence.
"Find him."
Another pause.
"And if the Valenti family is responsible, I want their leader to know that he has made a very expensive mistake."
He ended the call.
I set down my fork.
"What happened?"
Adrian looked at me.
"Your apartment was broken into."
My blood turned cold.
"What?"
"They've searched the place. My men arrived before anyone could confirm whether the intruders were still inside."
I pushed back my chair so quickly it scraped against the floor.
"My apartment? Did they hurt anyone? My neighbor lives next door. She's an old woman, and she—"
"She's safe."
I stopped breathing for a moment.
"And my things?"
"Probably damaged."
I stared at him, struggling to process the information.
My little apartment wasn't much. The furniture was secondhand, the kitchen was barely big enough for one person, and the heating system made a strange noise every winter.
But it was mine.
It was the one place where I could close the door and pretend the world wasn't falling apart.
Now even that was gone.
I lowered my head, pressing my fingers against my eyes.
I refused to cry.
Not in front of him.
Not in front of Adrian Moretti.
"Hey."
His voice was quieter than before.
I didn't look up.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Tell me everything will be fine."
He was silent for a moment.
"I wasn't going to."
A bitter laugh escaped me.
"At least you're honest."
He stood and walked around the table.
When he stopped beside my chair, I immediately straightened.
"Don't touch me."
He paused.
Then, instead of reaching for me, he placed a folded handkerchief on the table.
I looked at it.
Then at him.
"What's this?"
"A handkerchief."
"I know what a handkerchief is."
"Excellent. You're learning quickly."
I glared at him, but he had already turned away.
"Marco will show you to your room. You'll stay here until the situation is resolved."
"And if I refuse?"
He stopped at the doorway.
For once, he didn't smile.
"Then I'll find another way to keep you alive."
I wanted to hate him.
I truly did.
But as I watched him disappear down the corridor, I realized something far more frightening than his arrogance or his reputation.
Adrian Moretti had become involved in my life, and the people who wanted me dead were powerful enough to destroy everything I had.
I had no money, no protection, and nowhere else to go.
For now, the devil's penthouse was the only place I could call safe.
And the devil himself had just made it clear that he wasn't planning to let me leave.
Not yet.
Not while someone out there was hunting me.
And certainly not while the name Daniel remained a mystery that could get us both killed.