Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the PenthouseThe black town car cut through the dense Chicago traffic, moving with an aggressive, purposeful authority that forced other drivers to yield. Inside, the partition between the driver and the back seat was fully raised, creating a stifling, intimate cocoon of silence.
Camila sat pressed against the far door, her fingers tightly clutching the heavy brass key Lorenzo had forced into her hand.
“You are insane,” she whispered into the dim interior, refusing to look at the man sitting beside her. “You could have gotten him killed. You could have gotten me killed.”
“He is a boy playing at being a man,” Lorenzo said, his voice entirely unbothered as he stared straight ahead through the tinted glass. He was unwrapping the blood-soaked medical gauze on his palm with his teeth, tossing it carelessly into a silver disposal bin by the door. Beneath the bandage, the jagged cut from the shattered tumbler was already beginning to heal, a angry red line across his callused skin.
“Aiden is a good person,” Camila spat out, turning to glare at him. “He's kind. He’s normal. He doesn't smash glass when he doesn't get the answer he wants!”
Lorenzo finally turned his head, his dark eyes flashing with a sudden, ferocious intensity that made her breath catch.
“Normal people break promises, Camila. Normal people lie, cheat, and abandon the things they claim to care about when the room gets dark,” Lorenzo said, leaning in until she could feel the heat radiating from his chest. “I don't break. And when I find something that belongs to me, I don't let a boy with a bright smile take it.”
“I don't belong to anyone!” she shouted, the exhaustion, fear, and frustration finally boiling over. “I am not a piece of pastry art! I am not a trophy you win by intimidating my coworkers! Just let me out of this car!”
Instead of answering, Lorenzo reached out, his large hand cupping the back of her neck. His thumb brushed softly against her jawline—a touch so shockingly gentle, so entirely at odds with the violence humming beneath his skin, that Camila let out a sharp gasp.
“Look out the window, Camila,” he murmured softly against her ear.
She blinked back angry tears and looked.
The car had turned off the main avenue, passing through a pair of towering wrought-iron gates guarded by armed sentries who saluted as they passed. They were climbing a private, winding drive up toward the highest point of the Gold Coast—a secluded, monolithic stone estate that overlooked the gray, churning expanse of Lake Michigan.
It was a fortress. A modern castle built of dark slate, reinforced glass, and absolute isolation.
“Where are we?” she whispered, the anger draining away, replaced by a cold, creeping dread.
“Home,” Lorenzo said quietly. “At least, it will be, once you realize you can't run back to a kitchen that smells like flour and lies.”
The car glided to a halt beneath a grand portico. Before Camila could reach for the door handle, it swung open from the outside. Vince, the scarred guard, stood holding an umbrella against the misty drizzle, his face expressionless.
Lorenzo stepped out first, then turned, offering a large, gloveless hand to help her down.
May you like
Camila looked at his hand. Then she looked up at the towering dark estate. She knew, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that stepping out of this car meant stepping off the edge of a cliff. There was no going back to Logan Square. There was no going back to vanilla extract, simple syrups, and safe, ordinary routines.
Slowly, deliberately, she placed her hand in his.
