Page 6 of Wicked King

“Melanie is threatening to quit.” He stalks toward me and slams his palms on my desk. The glass quivers beneath his weight. “We’re lucky she’s not threatening to sue us. And she has every right to because you couldn’t keep your fucking dick in your pants.”

“Relax, Nico. We just got into a little fight.” I stand and meet my brother’s burning glare. “She’s overreacting. I’ll smooth things over in a few days, and everything will be fine, I’m sure of it.”

“I’m not,” he growls.

“I’ve learned my lesson, okay? No more screwing around with girls from the office.” I hold up my hands, palms out. “I swear.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” He pushes off my desk and presses his arms across his pristine jacket, nostrils flaring.

“What’s going on with your housekeeper, by the way?” Anything to change the subject until he calms down.

“Still nothing. I’ve run countless background checks on Blanca, and she seems squeaky clean. No ties to the Puerto Ricans…”

“So you think Maisy just forgot to log off your computer that day when she found the girl hunched over your screen, and it truly was all innocent?”

His dark brows furrow as he snags his lower lip between his teeth. “I’m not sure, honestly, but I have eyes on her at all times now when she’s in and out of the penthouse, so we’ll find out soon enough.”

“Speaking of the penthouse… I kind of need a place to crash.”

Nico’s eyes narrow as he regards me. “I’ve told you for months it was time to get your own place. You’re an adult, damn it, Marco, not a teenager couch surfing. Are you really that frightened of commitment?”

I snort on a laugh. Frightened of committing to an apartment? No way. “I will, all right? I just need somewhere to stay for a few weeks so I can find a place.”

“What’s wrong with a hotel room?” he hisses.

“Seriously?” I growl right back.

“It’s not like you have a lot of things. I still have the grand collection of your furniture and boxes in our storage.”

“Fine, asshole. I’ll get a damned room at the Waldorf again.”

“Good.” He steps closer, leaning across my desk and jabs a finger at my chest. “It’s time to grow up, fratello. Find an apartment and get serious about your life.”

“Just like you have?” I snap.

“Yes!”

“So it’s true, then, love conquers all. Now everything is magically fixed in your life? You and Maisy are the perfect couple, and you’re the perfect man?”

“Fuck off, Marco. Don’t be jealous. It doesn’t look good on you.”

I drag my hand through my hair, tugging at the short tips. A part of me knows I’m being an asshole, but I’m too pissed to care. I can’t believe I was actually considering my brother’s request to marry the Triad princess and restore peace in the chaos of the Lower East Side . Well, fuck that. I’m not doing anything for this coglione anymore.

If he thinks marrying me off to this Four Seas heiress is going to fix me, he’s got another thing coming. “Whatever,” I finally mumble. “I have work to do—you know, like an adult.” I tick my head at the door in a clear invitation for him to get the fuck out of my office.

“We’ll speak more on this later.”

“Right.” The hell we will.

The moment after Nico walks out, I grab my jacket and head to the door. I need to get out of here and really clear my head. Maybe I’ll luck out and stumble across a vacant apartment in my wanderings.

A few hours later with my earbuds stuffed in my ears playing my favorite songs, I’ve made it all the way down to the Meatpacking District. On the plus side, my head does feel much clearer. I can pick a damned apartment. It’s not a big deal. I’m not a child. On the downside, my crisp button-down shirt is soaked in sweat. It’s only June and already the heat in the city is suffocating.

Maybe I’ll just look for a house in Montauk to rent for the summer, which will buy me some extra time to commit to an annual lease. Dio, is my brother right? Am I that afraid of commitment that I can’t even choose an apartment?

I walk past a small boutique, and a head of dark, silky hair catches my eye. I stop midstride and peer through the window. A striking woman stands in the far corner dressing a mannequin. Her skin is flawless, a milky porcelain with high, proud cheekbones. A pencil is tucked between her ruby red lips, and she holds a sketch pad of some sort against her chest with her free hand.

There’s something familiar about the woman. Is that…?

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