His name lingered in the air between us like smoke.
Lucas De Santo.
I'd heard that name whispered in my father's office late at night when he thought I was asleep. I'd seen it on case files with ink so red it looked like dried blood. And now, here he was—standing close enough for me to smell the expensive leather of his jacket and the heat rolling off his skin.
Every instinct screamed at me to run.
But my feet didn't move.
Not because I wasn't scared—but because I was drawn in, and that terrified me more than anything.
"I don't owe you anything," I managed, though my voice was quieter than I intended.
Lucas tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting. "That's not how I remember it."
I backed away a step. One. He didn't follow. He didn't have to.
"I didn't tell anyone what I saw," I blurted, my nerves betraying me. "If that's why you're here—"
"No," he interrupted, his voice like low thunder. "If I thought you were a threat, you wouldn't still be standing."
I blinked.
It was a fact. Not a threat. That made it worse.
"So why are you here?" I asked.
He looked at me for a long beat. And then, slowly, he reached into his coat.
I flinched.
He paused, his expression unreadable, then pulled out a sleek black card. He held it between two fingers and offered it like an invitation.
"Because I wanted to see if you'd still be curious."
I didn't move. Didn't reach for it.
"You followed me," I said, a bitter edge in my voice. "Stalked me."
"I watched," he corrected. "You walked into my world. I needed to see if you'd walk back out."
"I didn't—"
"You did." His tone was final. "You didn't scream. You didn't faint. You ran… but not far. And now here you are."
My breath caught in my throat.
He was right.
I had come back. And some part of me didn't even regret it.
I looked down at the card. Then up at him.
"You don't get to play mind games with me," I said, forcing my voice to harden.
"I don't need to," Lucas murmured. "You're already playing."
He brushed past me like smoke, disappearing into the crowd before I could think of a response. I stood frozen, heart racing, the card still untouched in my hand.
It was blank.
But when I turned it over, there it was—etched in sharp silver letters:
One Night. One Answer. Suite 707.
Back in the apartment, Eleanor leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed.
"You left me at the bar like someone set your hair on fire."
"I didn't feel well," I lied, tossing my coat over the chair.
She watched me. Too closely.
"Was it him?" she asked quietly.
I paused mid-step. "Who?"
"The man in the alley." Her voice dropped. "The one you haven't told me about but think I don't know."
I turned slowly. My mouth opened—then closed.
Eleanor walked toward me. "You've been jumpy for days. You stare at nothing. And your phone has been ringing at odd hours."
"It's not—"
"You think I don't notice," she cut in. "But I do. And I saw you looking at him tonight."
I swallowed the lump rising in my throat.
"You don't understand, El."
Her eyes narrowed. "Then explain it to me."
I looked at the card in my hand. Then shoved it into the back pocket of my jeans.
"There's nothing to explain."
But later that night, I stood in front of the mirror, holding that same card between my fingers like it held answers I didn't want—but couldn't stop chasing.
Suite 707.
I told myself I wouldn't go.
That it was suicide.
That Lucas De Santo wasn't just dangerous—he was the definition of lethal.
But at 11:57 p.m., I found myself standing outside the elevator in the Glass House Hotel, wearing a black jacket and a storm inside my chest.
The city glowed behind me, glittering like temptation. My reflection stared back, pale and tight-lipped.
The doors opened.
Suite 707 was at the end of a gold-trimmed hallway. Two men in tailored suits stood outside the door, expressionless. One gave me a single nod and opened it without a word.
I stepped inside.
Soft jazz floated through the air. The lighting was low, sensual. The room smelled like cedarwood and danger.
And then I saw him.
Lucas stood near the window, back to me, a glass of dark liquor in hand. He didn't turn right away.
"I knew you'd come," he said, his voice a slow burn.
I closed the door behind me.
"I almost didn't."
He finally turned.
And God help me… he was damn beautiful.
Not in the way models were. No. He was the kind of beautiful that lived in legends and nightmares. Sharp jaw. Cold eyes. And that ever-present storm behind his gaze.
"Why?" I asked. "Why pull me into this?"
"Because you're already in it."
"I don't belong in your world."
"Neither did my mother," he said, surprising me.
I faltered. "What?"
He set his glass down. And walked closer. "She was a teacher. Kind. Gentle. She thought she could change my father. That love could tame darkness."
His eyes held mine. "She was wrong."
"Is that what you're trying to do now?" I asked, chest tight. "Prove that people like me don't belong anywhere near men like you?"
He stopped inches away. "No," he said, voice low. "I'm trying to see what happens when someone like you stops pretending she doesn't want to touch the fire."
My breath caught.
"I don't want—"
"Liar."
His hand brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, slow, deliberate.
My heart thundered. My skin tingled where his fingers grazed.
"You should hate me," he said.
"I do," I whispered.
"Then why are you still here?"
I didn't have an answer.
Because he was right.
There was something about him that had wormed its way under my skin. Something magnetic. Something terrifying.
Something real.
"Tell me what you want, Nia," he said softly. "And I'll give it to you. Just once. No strings. No lies."
My voice was barely breathing. "The truth."
Lucas stepped back. The temperature in the room dropped.
He poured himself another drink. Then one for me. Set it on the table between us.
"Drink it," he said.
"What's in it?"
"The truth."
I stared at the glass.
"What if it's poison?"
He looked at me, unblinking.
"Then you'll finally understand the kind of man you're dealing with."
I reached for the glass.
My fingers touched the rim.
And then—a knock shattered the silence.
Three hard bangs.
Lucas stiffened. His hand moved toward his jacket.
Another knock.
Urgent. Heavy.
He moved fast—crossed the room in two strides and opened the door.
I saw her before he spoke.
A woman in red. Long dark hair. A smirk that didn't reach her eyes.
"I told you not to get attached," she said, glancing past him—straight at me.
Then she dropped the bomb.
"Your brother knows about her."