Page 24 of Extradition (Mobsters + Billionaires 1)
RAND
“You keep calling this an apartment.It is not an apartment, of that you can be certain.”
Joe narrows his eyes, spinning in place as he broadens his arms. “Is this not a dwelling in a building with other dwellings? Is that not an apartment?”
“The people on the floors below are in apartments. Condos, if they’re being fancy. But this? This is the penthouse. And you know it’s the penthouse because I have a private elevator.”
He rolls his eyes so dramatically I’m concerned for his ocular health. With perfect timing, Grayson appears, holding a tray with a bottle of one of my favorite reds, decanted and ready to pour. I notice with a not-small amount of gratitude that he’s brought two glasses.
Good man.
He serves the wine, then quietly disappears. I wonder, sometimes, if the act of subtly leaving a room is something they teach to support staff.
“The people in the apartments downstairs don’t have a Grayson,” I say, swirling the wine I had flown in from the Piedmont region earlier this month.
Unimpressed, Portelli rolls his eyes and takes a drink—a swig, really—of the wine as if it is some sort of common restaurant offering. He nearly chokes, his eyes going wide as he pulls the glass away from him to study the fine liquid inside.
“Holy Mother of God. What the hell kind of wine is this?”
I take a sip, concerned that maybe it has somehow gone bad. But no, it’s perfect, well within season.
“It’s from the Nebbiolo Vineyards outside of Turin. Do you not enjoy it?”
He looks at me, scrunching his nose before looking again at the glass of wine and back to me.
“Are you fucking kidding me? I don’t think I’ve ever had anything as delicious in my mouth.”
I allow myself a small smile. Joe’s approval of Grayson’s selection is, sadly, the only good thing that’s happened all day. Still gazing at the glass in deference, he slowly brings it to his lips and tips the stem back, taking a much more respectful sip this time.
I watch as his Adam’s apple bobs up and down and the way his pink tongue clears the wine from his lips. Which don’t quite match his mechanic chic attire. He’s got a strong nose and thick angled brows, but his lips are not quite masculine. As I noted before, they’re plush. Annoyingly so.
The room is quiet, and I shift my eyes up, meeting his. He tilts his head, grinning at me. Seemingly aware that I’m looking, he makes more of a show of it. This time he slowly tilts the wine into his pretty mouth then licks his lips in a way that can only be described as flirty.
I take a deep breath and a step back. The warning klaxon in the back of my mind reminds me that stepping back is the opposite of what my father would do.
Despite years of training and grooming at my father’s feet, I can’t hold a candle to this guy. He has more presence and control of a room than I ever did. And today—in coveralls, no less—he spotted my father’s various power moves and didn’t budge an inch. It triggers every fucking insecurity I’ve ever had.
I hate it.
But not.
“Anyway, my wing is over here,” I say, pointing to the hallway off the living room. “And the guest rooms are just past the kitchen.”
The dramatic curve of the building’s architecture enables guests to have their own private suite, including a small den and kitchenette, which are out of view of the main living area. I rarely go back there, but I know without having to verify that Grayson’s already made arrangements.
“I’m not staying here. This place is way too fancy for me.”
“Did you not just indicate that you are in mortal danger?”
“I doubt your apartment rent-a-cops will be happy with this arrangement.”
“Again, this is not an apartment, and your living quarters are several hundred feet away from mine. We will not be in each other’s way.” I pull up my phone and send off a text. “As for the rent-a-cops of which you speak of so sneeringly, perhaps you’d like to talk to my head of security.”
Edgerton, who I assume was just out of visual range, steps into the living area. “How can I assist you?”
“We, as I’m sure you have surmised, are in a bit of a pickle. In saving my life, Mr. Portelli very much endangered his own. I offered to let him stay here in the guest quarters, but he has concerns regarding his safety.”
Edgerton turns to Joe, his professional demeanor locked in. “What concerns do you have?”
