Chapter 6 - The Penthouse Above the River
The ride in the private elevator of the Fierro Tower—a towering black-glass monolith situated directly across the river from the hotel—was so smooth I couldn't even feel the cable movement.
I stood near the mirrored wall, holding my small evening clutch with both hands, my mind still spinning from the chaotic blur of the past two hours.
“You didn't have to threaten him with a federal holding cell,” I said quietly as the digital floor counter ticked past forty-two.
“I didn't threaten him,” Giovanni replied, leaning against the opposite wall of the car, his jacket unbuttoned. “I stated an administrative probability. Men like your ex operate on the assumption that intimidation only flows downward. When they encounter someone who out-ranks them on the food chain, their entire operational model collapses.”
“He’s my daughter’s father,” I murmured, looking down at the floor. “For a long time, I let him convince me that I was the broken one. That leaving him was my failure.”
“He left a woman carrying his child because he was terrified of responsibility,” Giovanni said, his voice losing its teasing edge, replaced by a quiet, granite-hard certainty. “That isn't your failure, Jessica. That was his cowardice.”
The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open directly into a sprawling, multi-story penthouse apartment that looked out over the entire glittering panorama of the Chicago skyline.
Floor-to-ceiling glass walls framed the river below, reflecting the neon lights of the city like a scattered handful of diamonds. The interior was minimalist, masculine, and warm—dark hardwood floors, exposed steel beams, and shelves lined with hundreds of leather-bound books.
“Is this... where you live?” I asked, stepping out onto the hardwood.
“It’s where I sleep when I’m not in Geneva or Rotterdam,” Giovanni said, walking toward a sleek marble kitchen island. “Can I get you something? Water? Wine? A stiff bourbon after surviving my mother’s initial inspection?”
“Water would be fine, thank you.”
He poured a glass from a crystal pitcher and handed it to me. Our fingers brushed again—that same slight static jolt. I took a sip, letting the cold water steady my racing pulse.
“So,” I said, leaning back against the edge of the kitchen counter. “Let’s talk about the elephant in the room.”
Giovanni paused, a water glass in his own hand, raising an eyebrow. “Which elephant? My mother’s disapproval, my sudden decision to adopt a fake marriage, or the fact that your ex-husband is probably currently googling bankruptcy lawyers?”
“All of the above,” I said, crossing my arms over my emerald dress. “Why, Giovanni? Why pick me out of the entire ballroom? You could have hired an actress, or paid off some debutante, or just walked out the front door. Why pull a tired, stressed pediatric nurse into a war with your family?”
Giovanni set his glass down on the marble. He walked toward me slowly, stopping just a foot away. Up close, without the deafening noise of the ballroom, his presence was overwhelming—tall, steady, and entirely focused.
“Because I didn't want an actress,” he said quietly. “I wanted someone real.”
“That’s a Hallmark card answer.”
“It’s the truth,” he countered. “Three weeks ago, my mother ambushed me at a charity dinner with a woman who spent forty-five minutes explaining how she planned to redecorate my summer home in Tuscany while I was still working. I told my mother then that the next woman I brought around would be someone who actually understood what mattered in the real world.”
He reached out, his fingers gently brushing against my bare shoulder, tracing the line of my collarbone with feather-light precision.
“I watched you sitting by that kitchen door,” Giovanni murmured, his dark eyes holding mine captive. “You were exhausted. You were humiliated. But you didn't cry. You didn't fold. You sat there with your head held high, carrying the weight of a world that had tried to make you feel small. And when I offered you a way out, you took it—not because you were desperate, but because you were brave.”
My breath caught in my throat. Nobody had spoken to me like that since my father passed away. Nobody had looked at me and seen strength instead of a burden.
“My daughter is with a babysitter,” I whispered, my voice trembling slightly. “I need to pick her up.”
“I know,” Giovanni said softly. “My driver is already downstairs. He’s taking us both to your apartment so you can pack a bag.”
I froze. “Pack a bag? Who said anything about moving in?”
“Jessica,” Giovanni said, a slow, dangerous smile touching his lips. “My mother thinks you’re my wife. If you go back to your one-bedroom apartment tonight, Tyler will show up on your doorstep by morning with a bouquet of poisonous flowers and an apology speech designed to gaslight you back into submission. And my mother’s private investigators will be taking photographs through your kitchen window by breakfast.”
He stepped closer, closing the last inch of distance between us.
“Come stay here. For a few days. Let me handle your ex, let my mother process her shock, and let yourself breathe in a room where nobody is judging your shoes.”
May you like
I looked up into his dark, scarred, impossible face. Every instinct I had honed as a single mother screamed that this was reckless, insane, and completely out of my control.
And for the first time in five years, I decided I didn't care.
