The Boss's Son | ✅

5

I moved, allowing my feet to carry me away, while my head remained with Rizzoli. The manuscript – was he a collector? He owned art work by Henry. But there was a world of differences between contemporary art made by an acquaintance and an unknown illustrated version of The Prince, hawked to be contemporary with the work's author and maybe created for the Medici ruler of the time himself.

If real, the manuscript would be worth a fortune and then some. While it should be accessible to the public as part of human heritage, such manuscripts were a commodity for which a market and a black market existed, both worth millions. An organization like Rizzoli's, and Tess was convinced it wasn't just a fluke of her imagination but a thing of reality, would see it worth their while to dabble in it.

On the other hand, Mike had said that Rizzoli had sat on this manuscript for years before he parted from it for Mike's benefit. And then there was the indisputable fact that the manuscript had been stolen from Rizzoli and not by him. Again, who the fuck messed with the mafia? A rivaling organization? How many mafia connections could one history department hold up? These people had problems sharing a town already.

I stopped, my head dropped back, and I let out a noisy breath followed by a stomp of my foot in the middle of the hallway.

A fraction of a second later, my head darted back up and I looked around me, dragging some curls behind my ear. No one had seen me; but only because no one was around. I was alone. Silence surrounded me, only broken by my own breath. I didn't know where I was. Still in the hotel, I guessed. But I had no idea of my exact location. I had paid no attention to where I walked. All I knew was that this hallway was much less glamorous than the rest of the hotel.

I turned around my axis to discern my bearing. The difference was the light, I decided. It lacked the warmth of the golden shimmer that I was used from the banquette hall and other hotel facilities. It made the carpets and walls look more business than leisure. Maybe the doors gave off an air of greater sturdiness, too.

Upon completing the circle, I caught movement ahead of me. The shadow was gone before I could focus on it. All I had seen was the rest of an outline. One I thought, I recognized. But it couldn't be. My stepfather was gone now for almost a decade. Yet, someone had been there. Someone who might be able to point me back to the banquette hall so that I wouldn't lose time, stumbling around looking for it. I had taken enough too much time think-walking already. It could give Rizzoli the wrong impression of having daunted me with his remark about the people, he would have brought to deal with me.

Within a few steps, I was in front of the door through which the shadow had vanished. It was closed. I deliberated whether to knock or simply to barge in, a decision depending on what area of the hotel I had landed myself in. And almost died of a heart attack when a voice asked from directly behind me, "Can I help you somehow?"

How hadn't I heard anyone approach? While spinning around, my purse dropped to the floor. What I knew looked like a mishap due to the shock, was a deliberate move. Without delay, I darted down to collect my things and was so close to the beast of a knife, I always carried strapped to my ankle. Only then I looked slowly up the man who must have sneaked up to me and now stood towering above me, ready to ram my knife where it would really hurt, if he made the wrong move.

My eyes travelled along shiny black leather shoes and what promised to be well-defined legs in tailored suit pants to narrow hips that widened to a broad chest and up to black, velvety eyes. They looked quizzically down, framed by equally dark, wavy hair and a well-groomed, several days worth growth of beard. My hands stilled, my thoughts collapsed, and I was stuck. Then my treacherous body decided that this was the moment to blush. Just like that this man had disarmed me without even knowing.