The next evening. The massive, wrap-around terrace of the penthouse offered a dizzying view of Empire City. The ocean breeze was sharp and cool.
Alex sat on the deep outdoor sofa. He wore black tactical cargo pants and a tight black t-shirt. Sitting across from him were Arley Deleon, his right-hand man, and Gus Boggs, a lower-level enforcer.
Spread across the low glass table were several blueprints of the city blocks and three unloaded, heavy-duty handguns. They were speaking in low, rapid voices, planning the hostile takeover of an underground casino run by a rival faction.
The heavy glass sliding door leading to the living room glided open with a soft hiss.
The three men stopped talking instantly. Arley casually tossed a folded map over the handguns.
Ashlyn walked out onto the terrace. She was barefoot. She was wearing one of Alex's white button-down dress shirts. It was massive on her, falling to her mid-thigh. The top three buttons were undone, exposing her delicate collarbones and the pale skin of her neck.
Her face was still a sickly, translucent white from the blood loss, but the oversized shirt and her bare legs gave her a fragile, devastatingly intimate look.
Alex's jaw clenched instantly. A flash of dark irritation crossed his eyes. She was interrupting syndicate business, and she was walking around his men looking like she had just rolled out of his bed.
"Get back inside," Alex barked, his voice hard and uncompromising. "You don't belong out here."
Ashlyn didn't flinch. Instead of retreating, she walked straight toward him. She moved like a cat seeking a heat source. She bypassed the empty chairs and dropped right onto the sofa next to Alex.
She leaned her entire body weight against his solid bicep, pressing her soft shoulder into his arm.
"It's freezing in there," she whined, her voice soft, nasal, and dripping with exaggerated neediness.
Alex's entire body went rigid. His muscles turned to stone. His first instinct was to shove her off him. He raised his hand to push her shoulder, but he felt how genuinely cold her skin was through the thin cotton. His hand stopped in mid-air, hovering awkwardly.
Before he could react, the penthouse butler stepped onto the terrace. He carried a heavy silver tray.
He set the tray down on the glass table. On a porcelain plate sat a thick slab of pan-seared beef liver. It was cooked rare. Blood pooled around the edges of the meat. The heavy, metallic stench of iron and raw flesh instantly hit the air.
Ashlyn gagged. Her stomach violently lurched. She slapped a hand over her mouth, her eyebrows pulling together in genuine disgust.
"I am not eating that," she gasped, turning her face away. "It's disgusting."
Alex's face darkened. "You lost two pints of blood. Your iron levels are in the gutter. Eat it."
Ashlyn seized the moment. She ramped up the act. Her eyes filled with fake tears. She reached out and grabbed the hem of Alex's black t-shirt, tugging on it like a spoiled child.
"My arms are too weak to hold the knife," she murmured against his skin. It was a dangerous, incredibly intimate move. Alex felt a sudden, unwanted jolt of heat pool in his gut. His defenses cracked. He let out a harsh, frustrated sigh. He reached forward, picking up the heavy silver knife and fork. He cut the meat into small pieces, intending to leave it at that. But Ashlyn didn't move to take the fork. She looked up at him through her lashes, her voice dropping to a sickeningly sweet, dependent whisper. "I don't have the strength to lift my hands at all. I'll only eat it if you feed it to me."
The silence on the terrace was deafening.
Arley and Gus stared at them, their eyes wide. Arley bit the inside of his cheek, desperately trying to suppress a laugh. They looked away, pretending to admire the skyline.
Alex felt a vein throb in his temple. This was absurd. Yesterday, they were screaming at each other in the car. He had told her she was a whore. Now, she was rubbing against him in front of his men, playing the devoted, needy girlfriend.
He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. "Stop pushing me," he hissed, his voice lethal.
Ashlyn didn't back down. She buried her face into the crook of his neck. Her warm breath ghosted over his carotid artery.
She shifted her weight slightly, her elbow 'accidentally' clipping the edge of a heavy crystal water glass sitting on the table. The glass tipped over, sending a wave of ice water directly across the map Arley had used to cover the handguns. Arley cursed, lunging forward to grab the wet paper before it soaked through. In that frantic half-second of chaos, the corner of the map was exposed.
Her photographic memory instantly locked onto the red circled coordinates. Pier 44. The underground casino.
She leaned back against Alex's chest, opening her mouth for another bite. She had just secured her cover, humiliated him in front of his men, and stolen syndicate intel, all without lifting a finger.
