Chapter 3 - The Penthouse Monster
At 6:15 AM the following morning, a sleek black Cadillac Escalade pulled up to a luxury high-rise overlooking Lake Michigan.
I was escorted up to the top floor by two burly guards in dark suits who refused to speak a single word. When the private elevator doors opened directly into the sprawling, glass-walled penthouse, the smell of fresh espresso mixed with expensive cologne instantly filled my senses.
And then I saw him.
Dawson Moretti was leaning against the marble kitchen island, wearing a dark grey suit without a tie, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His dark hair was wet from the shower, and his knuckles were still bruised and raw from the night before.
He held a mug of black coffee in his hand, his piercing amber eyes tracking my every movement as I stepped off the elevator.
"You," Dawson growled softly, his voice heavy with sleep and lingering hostility.
"Good morning, Dawson," I said smoothly, setting my modest leather bag on the kitchen counter. "I'm your new handler."
Dawson let out a dry, dangerous laugh, setting his coffee cup down with a sharp clack against the marble. He took three slow, deliberate steps toward me until he was standing less than a foot away, towering over me, his physical presence suffocatingly intense.
"My father thinks he can put a leash on me with a pretty waitress from the West Side?" Dawson leaned down, his warm breath fanning against my ear, his voice dropping into a lethal whisper. "I could snap your neck before my security guards even reach the living room, Clara."
I didn't flinch. I didn't step back. I looked straight into those golden, predatory eyes and tilted my head.
"You could," I replied calmly. "But then who would tell you when your tie looks crooked? And besides... you didn't snap my neck when I dumped fifty ice cubes over your head. Why start now?"
Dawson froze. A muscle in his tight jaw twitched violently. For three long seconds, he stared at me as if trying to decipher an ancient code.
Then, to my complete surprise, the corner of his mouth twitched upward into a faint, dark smirk.
"You've got balls, Vance," Dawson muttered, turning back toward his coffee. "What's the schedule?"
"You have a meeting with the port authority commissioners at 9:00 AM," I said, pulling a tablet from my bag. "You need to finish your coffee, put on a tie, and refrain from smashing any glass tables for the next twelve hours."
"And if I refuse?" he asked, looking over his shoulder.
"Then I tell your father you're throwing another daycare tantrum," I smiled sweetly.
Dawson gritted his teeth, but he didn't argue. He downed the rest of his coffee, grabbed a silk tie from the counter, and threw it at my chest.
"Put it on me," he commanded softly. "Handlers are supposed to be useful, right?"
May you like
I took the silk tie, stepped close enough to feel the heat radiating from his chest, and loop it carefully around his collar, my fingers brushing against his neck. His breath hitched slightly, his amber eyes locked onto my face with an intensity that made my heart do a dangerous, erratic flip.
This wasn't just a job anymore. It was playing with fire.
