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As much as I hated to admit it, Angel's penthouse is probably the most well-decorated penthouse owned by a man that I've seen in a long time. It's forty-three floors up and overlooking the bustling streets of Manhattan.
As we enter his home, we part ways for a moment — him to the kitchen and me heading directly to his floor-to-ceiling windows, eyes caught on the glaring lights from cars and bikes and everything under the sun.
I partially expected bullet casings and grenades to be a part of his wall decor but I'm probably in the wrong room for that.
"Disappointed by the lack of random limbs lying around?" His smooth voice is only slightly louder than the sound of him pouring something.
I shrug, "You liked those fresh, didn't you?" He chuckles before I can hear him approach me from behind.
When he finally reaches where I'm standing, he doesn't go to stand beside me like I expected him to. Instead, he remains behind me and puts his arm around my waist to hand me a cup of water.
When I take it, his now empty hand rests flat on my waist. Though our skin is separated by his hoodie practically engulfing me, I can still feel the heat that his body emits. It's like he's my personal furnace.
The silence strikes me and I have to say something. Especially with him so close to me. "You gonna tell me what you know about me?"
"It's nothing you don't already know about yourself, Talia."
I find myself rolling my eyes, "Obviously." I turn in his grasp, eyes meeting his and I have to stop my knees from buckling at the sight of him. Smooth skin, long lashes, and different-colored irises stare at me. I hate men and their lack of trying. Especially this one. I'm certain he came out of the womb this perfect.
I step out of his hold and sip from the glass of water he handed me.
"Tell me what you don't know about me."
He scrunches his nose, "I would say your favorite color but I don't need a background check to figure it out." A random on the street can figure out my favorite color if they look at my nails long enough.
"You can do better than that," I grumble, turning to look at him. His face is as stoic as the day I first met him. He looks so unbothered and I can't say I even blame him. This is such an odd circumstance that it almost feels normal. "And be serious."
He lifts and drops a shoulder, a smile growing on his face as he looks down, "Nothing, Talia. I know everything about you. You were born in Michigan. Mom died giving birth to you, no dad on the birth certificate so safe to assume he wasn't in your life. Have your name in the system to back that up. No siblings, no aunts, no uncles, no grandparents. Bounced around foster homes until you were old enough to start stripping and make your own money, whether you earned it or stole it. You have enough money in your savings to run away and do whatever you want, but you choose to stay which tells me that you like the adrenaline rush, the uncertainty of all life has to offer." I remain quiet as he downs his half glass of whatever brown liquor he's drinking at eight in the morning, "Ti piace essere un problema." (You like being trouble.)
