My breath starts to come fast as we walk up the stone steps to the mafia mansion. And not because I’m winded – I’m pretty fit, actually, what with all of the dancing.
But the tension that builds in me – god, who the hell lives in a place like this?
What control of wealth do they have, to be able to afford it, to maintain it?
Unfortunately, there’s no real time to think on it as Christian pushes open the front door, not bothering to knock. And even though I’m at first surprised by this, I straighten my shoulders when I realize that of course he doesn’t knock – this is his home.
Christian – he lives here. I look around the palatial space, all marble and Turkish rugs and posh furnishings. My eyes drift upwards to the sweeping staircase, to the landing above bordered by an ornate iron r
