Page 117 of The Toy Collector

As we touch down in Cleveland, I feelthe difference in the air the second my foot hits the tarmac. I can’t stop watching my toy take it all in, unaware that each molecule has been filtered through my family’s grip for generations.

Her fingers curl around my forearm, trusting. “We’re not going through the terminal?” she asks, those green eyes scanning the private hangar, the waiting black Bentley, the absence of any processing or security.

“No need.” My palm finds the small of her back, guiding her forward. “This is Russo domain.”

I can’t stop touching her—shoulder, wrist, hair—as if making sure she hasn’t dissolved between my fingers. And every time I do, it quiets something rabid in me. The driver opens the car door without a word, eyes down in proper deference. When we slide into the leather interior, I pull her against me, her thigh pressed to mine.

“My family owns everything here,” I tell her, watching her profile as Cleveland’s skyline crawls past the tinted windows. “People know better than to question a Russo.”

“A Russo?” she asks, her voice catching slightly. “Is that… you? I mean, are you a Russo?”

“I am.” I trace the line of her jaw with one finger. “I’m Lorenzo Russo.”

“Why are you only now giving me your full name?” she questions.

I smirk. “You never asked, Toy. You guessed Lorenzo by yourself, but you never asked what my full name is.”

She scoffs, but instead of arguing, she accepts it with a sharp nod. “Touché,” she mumbles.

The city gives way to older neighborhoods, elegant buildings with history etched into their foundations. When we pull up to my building—twenty-eight stories of sleek stone and glass—I feel her shoulders tense slightly.

“This entire building is ours,” I explain, not a question. “I had it constructed eightyears ago.”

She blinks. “The whole thing?”

“Yes.” I watch understanding dawn across her face—another layer of my reach made visible. “We’ll stay in the ground-floor apartment.”

“Not the penthouse?” she asks, curiosity dancing behind her eyes.

I step out, offering my hand. “Of course not. You don’t like heights.”

Her lips part slightly, surprise softening her features. It’s such a small detail—one she might not have been aware I knew about, but I know everything about my toy. Her fingers touch mine, delicate and warm.

“I wonder if I’ll ever stop being surprised by the things you know,” she muses. Then she adds, “I hope not.”

“Don’t count on it,” I smirk. “I like surprising you.”

A small, private smile touches her mouth. “Thank you for being thoughtful.”

The quiet gratitude in her voice melts something inside me—a heat that spreads through my chest and makes my fingers tighten around hers. Such a simple thing, and she looks at me like I’ve given her something precious.

I quickly grab our suitcases from the trunk, refusing anyone else to follow us into the apartment I’ve made sure is ready for us. We walk across the lobby and take a left, toward the back, where the door to the apartment hides behind a column.

This is the one apartment I never thought I’d use, so when Piper threw down the gauntlet two weeks ago, saying I couldn’t have her until she knew the real me, I started making preparations for us to come here.

I unlock the door with my thumbprint on the scanner. “It’ll only open for the two of us,” I explain as I open the door.

“How did you…” She stops talking with a shake of her head. “Never mind. I don’t think I want to know how you got my thumbprint.”

Although I could remind her that we got her prints at Blackwood, I don’t. If she wants it to remain a mystery, I’m not going to ruin it for her.

Inside, I watch her face as she takes in the space—the floor-to-ceiling windows, the furniture, and even the paintings. Her eyes travel from the custom kitchen to the hallway leading to the bedroom, until they stop, fixed on something in the living room.

A banner stretches across the main window, and the bold red letters read:WELCOME HOME, KINGMAKER!!

“Fucking Matteo,” I mutter, crossing the room to tear it down. My cousin’s sense of humor hasn’t evolved since we were teenagers. I crush the banner in my fist, tossing it into the trash.

“Kingmaker?” Piper repeats, that sharp mind of hers already turning the word over.

---