I turn toward the door, reaching for the knob. I need to find Ava and Money, or maybe Poppy. Someone to take me home, so I can lie down. I lurch it open, but instead of people inside, there is a swirling mass of colors and movement. I blink but it doesn’t get any clearer.
“Adair.”
I try to raise my head to his voice but it’s too hard. I open my mouth but nothing comes out.
“Adair.” Sterling’s voice grows more insistent and then his face swims into sight.
“You’re so pretty, even when you’re all funny looking,” I say. Or I think I do. I’m not certain given the confused look he returns.
“Thank you,” he says slowly. He picks up my cup and sniffs it.
“I shouldn’t drink that. I’m the DD,” I tell him.
“Not tonight.” He crouches back on his heels and stares at me, his gorgeous face blurring in and out, then he mutters a string of curses that would make a sailor blush. “I can’t leave you like this.”
“Then don’t.”
His face softens, his hands gently brushing back my hair before he scoops me into his arms and everything goes black.
16
Sterling
Present Day
“If I were you,” Luca begins, and I brace myself for my friend’s particular brand of advice, “I’d stay here. Full house staff. Bar downstairs. Room service. Why exactly would you want your own place?”
“Why don’t you live here?” I ask him, handing off the last of my luggage to the bellhop along with a fifty-dollar bill.
“Maybe I will.” Knowing Luca, he’s seriously considering it.
If it was my first stay here, I wouldn’t blame him. We both landed at the Eaton as a matter of convenience. Nashville has plenty of hotels, but the Eaton boasts particularly tempting options for men like us. It’s an old-school hotel, catering to a clientele that expected gentility, grace, and, most importantly, discretion. In other words, it’s where Nashville’s elite go to conduct their affairs—both business and extramarital. The executive floor features suites generously decked out for business meetings with conference tables and reception areas. A Chesterfield sofa in olive-colored velvet sits across from two leather club chairs. In another hotel, the ticking stripe wallpaper might look outdated, but here it fits with the timeless sophistication. You didn’t bring a hooker to the Eaton, you brought your mistress, likely a friend’s wife or maybe daughter, as proof of good breeding. The whole place smacks of civilized vice.
And it’s available to anyone willing to pay its considerable price tag. “I’m not giving this place one more dime than I have to.”
“You’re the one who suggested the place.”
“Because of the list,” I say with meaning. I toss a folded piece of paper on the bed.
He picks it up and opens it. “You know blacklist is one word not two, right?”
“Everyone’s a critic,” I mutter, snatching back the hastily written list of people due a visit from karma.
“The more you know,” he says with a shrug. He doesn’t question my blacklist. He never has. Luca carries his own baggage. If he took any issue with my plans for revenge, he’s never shown it. A DeAngelo rarely suffers from moral crisis. Luca is no exception.
“Should I pack my things before you leave?” He fingers a matchbook from the hotel bar. “Is this going to be like Istanbul?”
“Nothing that simple,” I assure him.
“Good. Because Italian wool is quite flammable, and you told me to pack enough to stay a while.” A wolfish grin slashes across his face as he recalls our ill-fated time in Turkey. Glancing at him in his well-tailored black suit, he might pass more for a local Southern gentleman than a mercenary. Look closer and there’s a beast with a cruel sense of humor stalking through his dark eyes.
“I know the owner. He’s not the one on the list.” Cyrus is due to inherit the hotel and the rest of the chain when his dad finally kicks it, so my retribution regarding the Eaton lands solely at the hotel’s long-time manager. Cyrus had been one of my only true friends in Valmont, never bothered by my lack of money or status, but his charitable attitude hadn’t been shared by the staff here at the time.
“How do you want to play it here?” he asks.
Before I can answer him, a knock at the door interrupts us.
“I’ll get it.” He walks to the door and opens it.
A man in a neat but inexpensive suit and white gloves greets him with a bow of his head, a show of deference I’m certain inflates Luca’s overstuffed ego even more.
“Mr. Randolph would like to have a drink with you in his office—to thank you for your stay.”
“I’d be happy to join him for a drink,” I say loudly and the concierge startles.
“Sir, I’m sorry, I assumed,” he stutters an apology. “Both of you are welcome to join him before you depart.”
Luca crosses his arms over his broad chest when he leaves. “Drinking with the management?”
“You know I don’t drink.” I straighten my tie in the mirror by the door. Mr. Randolph won’t remember me. I doubt he ever bothered to learn my name.
“Why do you look like the prettiest boy asked you to dance at the prom?” Luca leans against the wall, surveying me with interest.
“Mr. Randolph is on the list. I’ve been meaning to squeeze in
