Page 129 of Remy

I ignore the obviously necessary security measures and wrap my arms around my middle as the doors close. “How are you feeling?”

“Peachy,” he drawls, pulling out his cell to tap into the screen while we ascend. “You?”

My heart pangs at his dejection. “Remy, I…”

I don’t know how to finish the sentence.

I’m sorry.

I wish I could make this better.

The doors open and he lumbers into a breathtaking apartment, the bird’s eye view of the harbor stealing my breath.

I step inside only to stumble over something on the floor—a pile of sneakers haphazardly stacked in the entry, the hallmark sign of the teenage boy who once lived here.

My heart drops, but Remy ignores my stumbling. He’s already walking ahead, hobbling through a magnificently opulent living room, the blood on the hem of his pants dripping on the polished tile floor.

What I imagined his home to be is nothing like the pristine penthouse spread out before me. I think I anticipated a dark, sinister lair. Instead, everything is light—the cream walls, the tasteful white furniture. The space is welcoming—the stylish abstract art, the blanket draped over the closest arm of the plush sofa.

It’s clean, professionally appointed, and tastefully lavish.

Remy continues to the kitchen and snatches a bottle of liquor from an overhead cupboard, screws off the lid, and gulps at the amber liquid.

I try not to fixate on him. On the bob of his throat. His perfectly chiseled jaw. The steely grip of his hand.

I turn back to the open space, occupying my eyes by cataloguing the luxury. A chandelier hangs over the glass dining table, the glistening glow reflecting in the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Baltimore skyline.

“You have a nice home,” I say lamely as I pad farther into the penthouse.

The hall to the left is long and wide, matching the one to the right. The television is huge. Over five times the size of mine. And there’s a coffee table that…

I narrow my vision on the spectacular glass table with its thick gold trim. But the white lines of powder steal my attention.

My heart takes another sweeping dive, the reminder of Remy’s career choice acting like a leash to my wonderment.

“The medical supplies are this way.” He walks for the left hall, bottle in hand, only to pause when I don’t follow. “Are you sure you still want to do this?”

I glance from him to the drugs then back again, my stomach churning.

The two don’t add up. They’re mismatched.

I can’t entwine them. Can’t make them fit into the same box. Only I need to. I have to remember he’s a criminal. A brutal mafia murderer. Yet what stands before me is a man riddled with tightly wound emotion. The grief is easy enough to decipher, but there’s so much more I want to discover.

“It’s not that big a deal, Pyro.” He continues on without me. “I can handle the wound on my own.”

“I’m coming.”

He walks away and I tag along.

Do I hate myself for it? Of course.

Could I stop myself? Not even if I wanted to.

I follow him halfway down the hall to a glistening bathroom bigger than any I’ve ever seen before. There’s a lengthy vanity with polished tap ware. An open-ended shower. A standalone bathtub situated right beside the floor-to-ceiling glass with an immaculate view of the city.

It’s the type of bathroom you’d see on Pinterest dream boards. On architectural websites.

I pause in the doorway as he yanks open vanity drawers, pulling out handful after handful of supplies.

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