Page 78 of Remy

“You’ve got a retort and the means to effortlessly dispose of evidence. Lean into that.”

She drags in a deep breath and lets it out in a rush.

The elevator opens and, as expected, one of Lorenzo’s armed guards eyeballs us from his standing post beside the elegant white front doors of the penthouse.

He doesn’t greet me. Doesn’t pretend like he has permission to even utter my name. He rushes to clear our path, silently opening both doors and moving out of the way.

I stride inside the ostentatious bachelor pad with its excessive high ceiling, seemingly untouched furniture, and sparkling marble floor.

The far-off murmur of voices travels from the right of the building. I lead Ollie in that direction. Past the kitchen. Down the hall. Toward the open entry of Lorenzo’s office where another guard stands in wait.

He doesn’t make eye contact. Doesn’t flinch from his soldier-like stance.

I shoot Ollie one last reassuring look, then continue inside.

“Remy.” My uncle pushes to his feet from behind his meticulously crafted wooden desk, his Italian accent thick, his smile warm and almost believable. “Thank you for coming.”

My brother stands by the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to me as he peers over the Baltimore skyline.

I keep my posture neutral, my expression edging toward boredom. “I’m a busy man. I could’ve done without the early morning summons.”

Salvatore turns to me with a roll of his eyes.

“I’m sure you could’ve, figlio. But I wanted to meet your friend.” Lorenzo takes in Ollie with a deceptively kind gaze. “Introductions are in order.”

The hair on my nape tingles. I shut that down. Ignore it. “This is Olivia.” I slide a palm around her back and guide her forward. “Carlo Pelosi’s daughter, and the full-time mortician at her family’s funeral home.”

“Olivia, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He makes his way around the desk, limping slightly, before stopping in front of her. “I met your father quite some years ago. He’s a good man.”

“Yes, he is.” She offers her hand to shake, her trembling fingers her only tell. “You have a lovely home.”

“Thank you.” Lorenzo’s smile deepens as he clasps her palm, shaking for longer than necessary. The first sign of subtle intimidation.

My hackles rise, my agitation increasing when Salvatore turns and prowls forward, staring down his nose at her.

“Please take a seat.” Lorenzo releases her hand and indicates one of the two wingback armchairs in front of his desk.

Ollie glances at the chairs positioned within lunging distance of my brother, then to me, as if sensing the warranted threat of his close proximity.

“It’s okay.” I give a subtle jerk of my chin. “Salvo won’t bite.” I scowl at him in warning. “Will you?”

He raises a brow. “The jury’s still out.”

I glower, my temper locked and loaded.

He might hold more power than me in this organization, but when it comes to the sibling hierarchy I have no problem getting my point across with violence. Not even when the last fight I had with my brothers resulted in two of us being stabbed.

“In that case,” I snarl through clenched teeth, “the jury might want to hurry up and learn some manners before the executioner loses his temper.”

Salvatore throws his head back with an exaggerated laugh.

I want to fucking kill him.

“Ignore them.” Lorenzo leans against his desk. “It always surprises me how grown men can revert to childish toddlers the moment a beautiful woman enters a room. Please—” he indicates toward the seats again. “—sit.”

Ollie does as requested, scooting around the far side of the chair farthest from my brother before settling into the seat with her hands in her lap.

“I heard you had an eventful weekend.” Lorenzo doesn’t take his scrutinous eyes off her.

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