Page 53 of Vicious Games

“Well, at least you own up that you’re an asshole.”

“Never said I wasn’t.” I chuckle, starting the car.

Doechii starts playing through the speakers as I pull onto the main road, weaving through the busy city streets of Chicago. Ten minutes later, I park in the underground garage of Jude’s penthouse and lead Frankie to the private elevator.

She’s gripping the straps of her backpack as if it were a lifeline, her fingers curled so tight her knuckles have gone white.

“You’re safe with me, Frankie,” I say as the elevator starts to climb. “I know I come on strong, but if you’re worried I’m going to hurt you or something—”

“I’m not,” she interrupts.

“Are you sure?” I tilt my head toward the way she keeps tapping her foot. “Because that suggests otherwise.”

She follows my gaze and sighs, realizing her foot is bouncing uncontrollably against the floor.

“Fine,” she grumbles. “You’re right. I’m jittery. But that’s because you and I don’t have the best track record. For all I know, you could be some serial killer luring me into a trap. If I see plastic on the floor, I’m out.”

I bark out a laugh. “Jesus, you’re dark. How the fuck are you gonna be a nun when your mind works like a made man’s?”

“A made what?”

Fuck. Now, I’ve said too much.

“Forget it.” I clear my throat. “Just trust me. There’s no plastic, and I’m not gonna whack you.” I flash a grin. “Just tutor you.”

Her stare tightens as if she’s mentally dissecting me. “That better be the case. Or you’ll see more than my fist.”

“Warning taken,” I grunt as the elevator dings.

The doors slide open, and I walk ahead to Jude’s penthouse, unlocking the door and making a big production of pushing it open.

“Ladies first.”

Frankie hesitates, scanning the space as if expecting to find a murder scene. After confirming the absence of plastic wrap, she takes a step inside.

Her gaze sweeps over the apartment, looking at the high ceilings, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, and the sleek leather couches and Italian furniture.

“Wow. This is…impressive.” She lets out a breath. “How am I not surprised that your family has an apartment in the city, too?”

I smirk, shutting the door behind us.

“You really haven’t figured it out yet, have you?”

“Figured what out?” she asks suspiciously.

“That my family?” I lean into her ear, my voice dropping just slightly. “We own this city.”

“Funny.” She rolls her eyes at me, taking a step away, completely unaware of how true my remark really is. “Does this apartment belong to your uncle, too?”

“No. This is my brother’s place. Don’t worry. Jude won’t be home until Thanksgiving.”

Frankie lifts a brow. “Why would I be worried? We’re just here to study. Nothing more.”

She says it so definitively, so matter-of-fact, that it hits me like a damn Mack truck.

Not that I let it show.

My usual teasing smirk stays put as she gives the living room a once-over, then strides forward and shoves the coffee table—fancy chessboard and all—out of her way before dropping onto the plush white rug.

---