Page 39 of Devil's Iris
I slip into the backseat of the Maybach and press my face against the tinted window, the cool glass a balm to my still-stinging cheek. Dean gets back behind the wheel, starts the engine, and pulls away from the house. I don’t look back. I just stare ahead, numb, as he drives me out of the neighborhood I’ve lived in all my life towards my new life.
A life with a man I barely know, despite our date last night—if it can even be called that. My eyes drop to my arm, to the spot where he wrote his name. I scrubbed at it hard in theshower this morning, so the ink is gone, but if I squint, I can still make out the faint outline.
What even is my life going to be from now on?
I already signed the contract. The loan has been paid off. A house has been purchased for Mom and Ethan—under my name. There’s no going back for me now. Not that I want to back out. I think the space away from Mom will give me some much-needed clarity.
I sigh heavily as I drop my arm.
We make it to Brooklyn Heights in record time, and as we pass through the tall iron gates into Romero’s property, I straighten in my seat. Tall fir trees and black outdoor lamps frame the long drive up to the driveway, and I take it in with fresh eyes, trying to wrap my head around the fact this is supposed to be my new home.
The house itself—a two-story brownstone—sits elegantly surrounded by pretty trees. Not at all what I pictured. I was expecting a flashy penthouse in the middle of downtown, not a gated residence tucked away like this. And it’s not small by any means.
The abundant space and greenery around the property create an illusion that we’re in the countryside, not in one of the most densely populated cities in the world. It’s hard to believe such a place exists in New York.
And to me, it’s proof that money can buy you anything—luxury, privacy, security, and distance from the chaos of the outside world.
Walking inside with my worn-out clothes and old travel bag, I feel like an imposter. Even though I slept here last night and woke up here this morning, it didn’t feel real then. Even now, it’s still a little surreal.
Inside, everything screams understated luxury. Polished wood, crown molding, air that actually smells clean and…alsoexpensive. I swallow as I walk farther in, craning my neck toadmire the soaring ceilings.
The living room boasts huge floor-to-ceiling windows, the glass so clear it feels like I could step right through into the garden beyond. The furniture is plush and in muted tones—a cream and gray couch and matching armchairs with midnight blue throw pillows. Nothing too bright, nothing too personal.
Nothing that tells me anything real about the man who lives here. Even the artwork on the walls feels strategic, chosen to complement the décor rather than reflect the owner’s actual taste or personality.
The kitchen is an absolute dream, though. I had so much fun cooking in it earlier. Marble counters stretch endlessly across the space, while top-of-the-line appliances are built seamlessly into the sleek cabinetry, almost camouflaged. And a chandelier—anactualchandelier—hangs from the ceiling above the island, its crystals catching the light and scattering pretty patterns onto the marble and glossy floor.
It’s unreal. Looking at the pristine kitchen now, it’s hard to believe Romero wasn’t worried about making a mess in here. If I hadn’t seen him in action this morning, I’d probably be scared to even touch anything, scared of ruining the perfection.
The dining room is just as impressive, though far too big just for one person—well, two people now, I guess. Another chandelier hangs here, right above the big dining table, tossing light over the polished surface and the rows of chairs. In the corner, a tall vase filled with pretty artificial flowers adds a touch of color to the otherwise neutral space.
There are too many rooms to explore, and with Romero not home, I feel like I’d be crossing a line if I went poking around everywhere. Instead, I head upstairs to the room I woke up in this morning.
The dark navy walls are oddly familiar now, so is the framed artwork—two abstract pieces drawn in black and whitelines, and a single blue iris. That flower pulls me in, and I move closer to examine it properly.
The down-curved violet petals and thinly veined bud are surrounded by sword-like leaves, and around it, sketched in black and white, are other types of flowers. I recognize the lily of the valley and the tulips even without color, but I can’t identify the third flower with its star-shaped buds.
The frame is beautiful, and instinctively I know it’s probably the only thing in this room that actually means something to Romero. Just as I know, without being told, that this is his bedroom.
A quick peek into the enormous walk-in closet—big enough to fit two of my old bedrooms—confirms it. One side is filled with expensive suits and other masculine clothing. The other side is empty, presumably waiting for my pathetic collection of belongings to fill a tiny corner of the vast space.
I sigh as I return to the bedroom.What am I doing here?
But then I see the note on the nightstand. The bold, masculine handwriting is instantly recognizable. I guess Idoknow a few things about him, after all.
Lawyer by day, mobster by night.The whispered words from an article I read about him years ago slip into my mind. I shake them away and read the note.
Welcome home.
—Romero.
Just two words. Two simple words. But they melt my heart like metal in a forge. I press the note to my chest for a second before setting it back down.
A ping pulls my attention—my phone. I take it out, frowning when I see it’s a text from Romero.
15
LENI
