Page 285 of Rosetti Family New York
She doesn’t know I’m taking care of her. Doesn’t realize that every comfort is planned, every convenience tailored to her needs and preferences. The surveillance probably feels like a violation to her because she doesn’t see it as devotion. But she will. Eventually, she’ll understand that being watched by someone who loves you completely can feel the same as being held.
5
Mara
The hotel room feels different when I return from meeting Chase Callahan. I pause at the doorway, holding the warm key card in my hand, every instinct inside me screaming warnings I can't quite understand. The room looks the same, cream leather furniture placed just right, floor-to-ceiling windows showing off Manhattan, and abstract art picked by a committee. But something has changed.
It starts with the air. The temperature greeting me isn't the cool setting I left behind, that uncomfortable chill I keep because it stops me from sleeping too deeply, trusting too easily, or dying quietly. Instead, warmth wraps around me. It's exactly the temperature I like, though I've never told anyone.
My hand shakes as I let go of the door handle. I lock everything, deadbolt, chain, electronic seal, then lean against the heavy door and listen. The silence seems to be waiting, as if the room's been holding its breath for me to come back.
"Paranoia," I whisper to the pricey emptiness, but even that word feels empty. Years of running make threat assessment automatic, as natural as breathing. Hypervigilance isn't a choicenow, it's a survival skill sharpened by too many close calls and nights waking to footsteps that shouldn't be there.
But this isn't paranoia. It's awareness. I go through my security checks quickly and efficiently. The single hair across the bathroom door frame is still there. Good. The light dusting of powder on the marble table shows no signs of disturbance. Better. The book on the nightstand is exactly where I left it, spine aligned just so.
Everything is as I left it. So why do I feel like a stranger in my own safe space?
In the small kitchen area, I pour myself a glass of water. The cold crystal tumbler feels icy against my hand. I look at my reflection in the shiny fridge door. It shows someone who appears calm and in control. But my eyes tell a different story. They're wide and alert, with pupils large from adrenaline I can't explain.
The meeting with Chase went better than I thought it would. He had every reason to be suspicious of Connor being beaten up by Emilio on our date and what role I might have played. It's only natural for a man who survives by being cautious. But he desperately needs what I'm offering. For now.
I settle on the cream leather sofa, balancing my laptop on my knees, and try to focus on the Rosetti's banking records that one of my Zurich contacts gave me. These are numbers that represent millions in hidden money, accounts that could fund small wars. This work demands my full attention. If I want to extricate myself from this mess, I need leverage.
But I lose focus as soon as I catch a scent. At first, it's so faint I think I'm imagining it, a trick of the mind caused by stress and lack of sleep. But as I sit still, the smell becomes stronger.
Jasmine.
It's not the usual hotel air freshener or commercial perfume, but something distinct and real. It's the kind that grows inMediterranean gardens, where old women carefully tend to ancient vines. Where pale flowers bloom in the morning sun and release their fragrance into the warm air…
My blood runs cold.
I know this scent well, in ways that go beyond memory. My body reacts before my mind can, my pulse racing as my instincts flood me with a surge of fight-or-flight chemicals.
His grandmother's garden. The last morning before everything went to hell.
I woke up early in his arms, pulled from sleep by the sunlight and sweet scents coming through the open windows. Jasmine was in full bloom, with its old vines releasing their daily fragrance. I carefully slipped out of bed, trying not to wake him, enjoying how sleep softened his usually sharp features. I walked through the marble halls, still cool from the night.
The garden was empty except for the morning light and a sense of possibility. I picked a single bloom, studying its delicate petals that seemed too fragile to last but somehow did. When I returned to place it on his nightstand, his gray eyes watched me with an unfamiliar look. Something raw and full of wonder.
"You smell of jasmine," he murmured, his voice rough from sleep and something more. "It suits you."
I curled up against his chest, feeling safe, loved, and at home. That was the last time I felt safe.
Now, sitting in this sterile hotel room with my heart racing, I look around the space with new eyes, searching for a scent that shouldn't be there.
There.
On the glass coffee table.
A single jasmine bloom lies next to my laptop as if it appeared from a memory. Its white petals are soft like butterfly wings, with a yellow center bright like captured sunlight. It's freshenough that morning dew still clings to it, catching the light and creating tiny rainbows.
My hands tremble as I reach for it, then pause.Evidence. Don't mess up the scene.
Under the flower is something that takes my breath away.
Hotel stationery. Cream paper with the Grand Metropolitan's watermark. And on it, handwriting I'd recognize even in my sleep, even if I were blind, among a thousand similar scripts because it's etched in my memory forever.
Mara.
