Page 13 of The Voicemail

She watches me like she’s waiting for me to add conditions. I don’t. Finally, she gets out of the car.

Luca walks in the side door. His eyes go straight to Elena, then to me. He reads the room quickly like he always does. He senses the fear in her eyes, then flickers to my jaw and the blood drying on my cuff. He notices the way I’m standing far enough from her that she can pretend I’m not guiding her inside.

He says nothing. Our small party walks to the private garage elevator, which opens right away. After a short ride, the doors open directly into the residence.

Elena steps out and stops. Most people do. The place isn’t ostentatious, but it’s undeniably expensive. The floors are dark wood, the walls pale. The windows look out over a wet, glittering stretch of lower Manhattan. There’s security glass in every pane, a reinforced door behind us, and men downstairs who know better than to let anyone near this floor without permission.

Elena doesn’t look impressed, but she sure as hell looks suspicious.

“You own a security company?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“And this is one of your secure residences.”

“Yes.”

“For what purpose?”

I can’t help chuckling at her curiosity, and I can’t blame her for it.

“If not for personal use, I have it available for clients who need somewhere safe to stay.”

She turns toward me. “Am I a client?”

“Not exactly.”

Her eyes narrow. “Then what am I?”

I mull the question over longer than strictly necessary. She isn’t a damsel in distress, exactly, but that’s the closest thing. At least if I leave out all the mafia politics involved in keeping her safe from a rival.

“You’re someone who needed somewhere safe tonight,” I answer simply.

Adriana, my house manager, comes down the hall before Elena can answer. She’s in her fifties, sharp-eyed, and unflappable in a way I’ve always appreciated. She runs this residence when I’m here and keeps it ready when I’m not.

Her gaze moves over Elena, the bag, the pale face, the barely held-together control. Then she looks at me.

“I’ll prepare the guest room,” she says.

“One with an interior lock,” I tell her.

Elena glances at me.

I don’t look back.

Adriana nods. “And tea,” she adds, looking at Elena this time. “Or coffee?”

Elena hesitates.

“Ask for something or she’ll be offended,” I murmur to her.

“Water is fine,” she finally answers.

Adriana’s face softens a little. “Water, then.”

When she leaves, Elena watches her go, confused.

“She works for you too?”