Page 75 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

“Where are we?”

I step out of the elevator and my boots land on polish hardwood floors that stretch in every direction. The ceiling soars two full stories above me, and from it hangs a constellation of amber pendant lights that throw warm pools of gold across row after row after row of bookshelves. The shelves climb from floor to mezzanine, connected by rolling ladders that slide along brass rails. A wrought-iron staircase spirals up to the second level, where more shelves line a gallery that wraps the entire perimeter. The railing is black iron twisted into vine patterns, and I file that detail away because my florist brain catalogs the beautiful pattern to use in my work.

In the far corner, a coffee bar hums with low music and the hiss of a steam wand. Two baristas work the machine. A cluster of armchairs circle a low table near the windows, where natural light slices across the hardwood and catches the dust motes drifting through the amber glow.

People are here. Real, actual human beings browsing shelves, pulling books, sitting in armchairs with their legs tucked under them and cups balanced on the armrests. A man in a corduroy jacket reads with his glasses pushed up onto his forehead. A woman with a toddler on her hip plucks a picture book from a low shelf and the toddler squeals and grabs for the cover.

My hand finds my locket. The gold presses warm against my collarbone. I wish my sister could see this. I’ve given up trying to call her, but I make a mental note to try again before we tuck ourselves in back at the bunker.

I cross the space to the railing and I can’t stop staring.

"You brought me to a bookstore." I must sound lovestruck.

Rowan comes up to stand behind me and wraps his arms around my middle. He leans his head down and whispers close to my ear, "I did. This is my bookstore."

I turn in his arms and tilt my head up to look at him. He watches me with complete, undivided attention that makes me forget there are other people in the room. The amber light catches the angles of his face and softens them, and for a second he doesn't look like a man who commands and empires. He looks like a man who owns a bookstore and is proud of it.

"Your bookstore?"

"Da."

"This is yours?"

"One of three, yes."

I stare at him for several seconds before I turn my attention to the two-story shelves and the rolling ladders and coffee bar. The happy laughter of a toddler squealing over a picture book makes me smile. I stare at the wrought-iron vine railing, the amber lights and the reading nooks tucked into corners like secrets waiting to be found.

"A mobster who lives in an underground compound owns the most beautiful bookstore I've ever been inside."

"I also own a bar in Wicker Park, but the bookstores are the ones I check on weekly. The ones I care about the most.”

My mouth opens and closes and opens again. I must look like a fish. A deeply confused, deeply charmed fish.

"Walk with me." He touches the small of my back. The warmth of his palm radiates through the fabric of my cardigan and my spine straightens into the contact like a sunflower tracking light.

We move through the stacks. I trail my fingers along the spines the way I trail my fingers along flower petals, loving the different textures. Linen covers, glossy paperbacks, the rough edges of uncut pages. The air between the shelves is closer, warmer, and smells like ink and age and the quiet promise that someone poured their entire soul into these pages and left it here for a stranger to find.

I pause at a table display near the center of the floor. Art books. Photography. Design. My fingers land on a book of botanical illustration and I flip it open to a spread of foxglove rendered in watercolor so precise my hands itch for my pencils.

"This is incredible," I murmur. "The cross-hatching on the stem, the way they handled the bell shape of the flowers. Do you know how hard foxglove is to render? The tubular structure fights you the entire time."

He doesn't answer. When I look up, he's standing two feet away with his arms crossed and an expression I can't categorize. Patient. Quiet. Watching me talk about foxglove cross-hatching the way he probably watches intelligence briefings, except his eyes are warmer than they should be and that barely-there smile he uses every once in a while is threatening to become a real one.

I close the book. "What?"

"Keep going."

My lips part. "About foxglove?"

"About anything." His voice drops. The vowels stretch. "Just like I told you yesterday. Keep talking."

Heat blooms from my collarbone to my hairline. I put the book down and clear my throat and turn toward the far wall of the store because looking at him while he looks at me like that is a cardiovascular event I'm not prepared for in public.

"Where's your coloring book section?" The question is professional. Automatic. My brain defaulting to the thing it knows best when the rest of me is short-circuiting. "Every independent bookstore worth its square footage should have a dedicated creative section. Adult coloring books moved sixty-two million units last year. If you're not stocking them prominently, you're leaving money on the shelf."

"I’m glad you asked."

It’s obvious he’s up to something. A playful happiness softens his features and I can’t keep a smile from forming.