Page 21 of The Cost of Corruption
Honestly, I was impressed she’d made it that long.
For a while, after I’d had her father unceremoniously thrown to the curb, she didn’t do much but silently sit on the edge of the cushions, spine straight and eyes glazed, staring across the room as I went about the business of running the club. But that didn’t last long.
After an hour or so, the drink and exhaustion finally caught up with her, and her eyes and shoulders both started sliding down.
Once she was out, I went over to the couch just long enough to stretch her out into a more comfortable position. And, even though the temperature in my office was perfectly comfortable, I still took off my coat and slipped it over her like a blanket.
Even in sleep, she was grateful. Her fingers curled into the collar as she unconsciously tucked the material more fullyaround her. She was small enough that the jacket practically swallowed her up, reaching all the way down to her knees.
She wasn’t the first girl who had passed out on my office couch after a long night. Not even close. But she was the first I had a hard time turning away from.
But eventually, I had to.
A beautiful woman had never stopped me from working before, and it wouldn’t stop me now—even if I had to repeat that mantra a couple of times before I finally managed to pull myself away.
But even as I spent the next few hours working through the mound of paperwork piled on my desk, I kept my eye on her.
I didn’tneedto.
Exhausted and filled with champagne, she stayed sound asleep as the usual parade of employees came in and out of my office all night—the floor manager with the receipts for the night, the chef with orders for me to approve, Marcus with his final security report. If any of the staff was surprised to find a nun passed out in the corner of my office, they were well-trained enough to keep it to themselves.
They knew better than to expect an explanation.
No one had to explain themselves at La Sera. That was the whole idea behind the club. This was supposed to be the one place in New York where there were no cameras, no microphones, and no limits. Where whatever you wanted, whatever deviant fantasies lurked in the dark corners of your mind could come true.
For a price, of course.
I paused, looking up from the books long enough to wonder how expensive tonight’s liaison would turn out to be.
For all his talk, I wasn’t afraid of Michael Costa.
Tensions between the Costas and D’Angelos had always been high, even back when my father was alive. Still, they’d neverboiled over into an all-out war. Mainly because, for all their reckless faults, the Costas were smart enough to know that going head-to-head with the D’Angelos was a battle they couldn’t win.
Our family was just too strong. Too well connected. Too powerful.
Bringing down a single D’Angelo meant certain death to an entire family.
That philosophy was how my father, and his father before him, had grown their empire. And now, it was how my brothers and I kept their legacy secure.
And while it was true that I didn’t have the same violent and bloody reputation as my brothers, Michael Costa would be a fool to think that meant I wasn’t dangerous. It only meant that I was better at keeping my secrets buried.
The first streaks of dawn were just starting to break through the shadows of night when the last customer walked out the club door. I left the floor manager to lock up and went to rouse Chastity.
But for some reason, I couldn’t do it.
There was something about her peaceful expression. The way, even hours later, she was still clinging to my jacket. It didn’t seem right to wake her up.
So instead, I slid one arm under her neck and the other under her knees and lifted her up, cradling her against my chest. She stirred at the motion, but only for a moment. Half a second later, she nestled her head against my shoulder and tucked herself even deeper into my embrace.
Damn, she was light, I thought as I carried her out of my office and down into the back lot where my Jaguar was parked. She must have had more champagne than I realized because her eyelids didn’t so much as flicker once during the ride from lower Manhattan to the D’Angelo house on 91st Street.
She was still dozing away in my arms when, a while later, I opened my back door and stepped into the kitchen.
“Buongiorno, Mr. Matteo,” a cheerful voice greeted me.
Letizia, our housekeeper, was already up and working on breakfast. Bent over a stove burbling with the scent of cinnamon and honey, her back was still to me when I started moving past her.
“Good morning,” I said in a half-whisper, not wanting to wake Chastity.
