Page 4 of Lorenzo

“I know complicated.”

There it is again. That flicker of something beneath the surface.

Alessio notices because he is his father’s son, and because Lorenzo Conti raised both of his boys to pay attention to the things people try to hide. Edoardo is better at it. Edoardo can watch a person for five minutes and know which pressure point to press.

Alessio is better at making them forget they have pressure points.

With Genevieve, though, he finds himself wanting less performance.

Less charm.

More truth.

The Halston rises ahead of them, all limestone and brass and dark glass, the kind of hotel that makes privacy look like a service instead of a promise. Genevieve does not hesitate as they pass beneath the covered entrance.

He files away the lobby in his mind. Cameras near the entrance. Another angled toward the elevators. Staff at the desk. A bartender wiping down glasses though the room is nearly empty.

Habit.

His father would be proud.

Or irritated.

Probably both.

In the elevator, Genevieve stands close enough that her shoulder brushes his chest when the car rises.

“Do you always watch rooms like that?” she asks.

He looks down at her. “Like what?”

“Like you are deciding who might lie to you first.”

The observation surprises him enough that he smiles.

“No one lies to me first.”

“No?”

“I usually start.”

She laughs again, but this time there is something almost relieved in it.

On the fifteenth floor, the hallway is hushed, carpet thick beneath their feet. Genevieve takes a key card from her small clutch. Her hand is steady, but when she reaches the door, she pauses for half a breath before unlocking it.

Alessio sees that too.

“You don’t have to invite me in,” he says.

She turns her head.

For the first time all night, her expression is not seductive. Not practiced. Just open enough to make him feel suddenly careful.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” She lifts one hand and rests it against his chest, right over his heart.