Fatal Fall: Loving My Father's Killer

Forty-two floors above the streets of Manhattan, hanging by a thread—literally—I wasn't thinking about death. I was thinking about failure.

If I mess this up tonight, I'll never find the truth about Dad.

The wind whipped through my hair as I dangled outside the glass tower, my reflection ghostly in the darkened windows. The Romano Industries building looked like a fortress from out here. Perfect for hiding secrets. Perfect for hiding killers.

My safety rope gave a sickening jerk, and my heart stopped for a beat.

Shit. Not good.

The fiber was fraying faster than I'd calculated. Nine years of FBI training, and I'd miscalculated the weight distribution. Real professional, Rossi.

I pressed my palm against the cold glass, feeling for the window latch I'd spotted during surveillance. My fingers were numb from the October wind. Come on, come on...

The rope snapped like a gunshot in the night air.

For one terrifying second, I was free-falling toward the concrete forty-two stories below. My stomach dropped into my boots, and I think I actually saw my life flash before my eyes—not the good parts, just the endless FBI training sessions and Morrison's disappointed face.

Then a hand—strong, warm, impossibly fast—clamped around my wrist.

I looked up into a pair of amber eyes that seemed to glow in the darkness. The man attached to those eyes hauled me through the window like I weighed nothing, both of us tumbling onto the polished office floor in a tangle of limbs.

I landed on top of him, our faces inches apart, and time just... stopped.

His eyes were the color of whiskey, framed by dark lashes that were completely unfair on a man. His black hair was disheveled, probably from whatever he'd been doing before I crashed his evening. And that face—sharp cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass, and lips that were currently curved in what might have been amusement.

Focus, Aria. This is not the time to appreciate the scenery.

But there was something about those eyes...

I snapped back to reality and drove my knee toward his ribs, aiming for the spot that would drop most men. He caught my leg effortlessly, rolling us over so I was pinned beneath him.

"You're not just some random thief," he said, his voice low and rough. "Professional training. Military?"

I bucked against his hold, trying to get leverage. "And you're not just some random banker. Your reflexes are way too good."

He smiled, and it was dangerous. "Observant."

I managed to slip one arm free and went for his throat, but he caught my wrist again, pinning both my hands above my head with one of his. The position put his face very close to mine, close enough that I could see the thin scar cutting through his left eyebrow.

Wait.

That scar... I'd seen something like it before. In Dad's case files, on one of the victims. The shape was distinctive—curved, like a blade had caught the skin at just the right angle. But this was old, healed. A survivor's scar, not a victim's.

"Tell me who you are," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear, "or you won't be walking out of this building tonight."

My heart was racing, but not entirely from fear. There was something electric about being this close to him. Get it together, Rossi.

"I'm just a broke art student trying to steal enough money to pay for my mom's cancer treatment," I lied smoothly. The cover story rolled off my tongue like I'd been practicing it for weeks. Which I had.

"Bullshit." His amber eyes searched my face. "Try again."

The weird thing was, he didn't look cruel. Dangerous, absolutely. But there was something almost... protective in the way he was holding me. Like he was restraining me for my own safety rather than his.

Don't be an idiot, Aria. He's Romano family. They killed Dad.

But looking at him now, feeling the careful way he was holding my wrists—firm but not painful—I was starting to wonder if Morrison had given me the full story.

"Fine," I said, meeting his gaze head-on. "I'm a very talented thief with a very sick mother and very expensive medical bills. That honest enough for you?"

He studied me for another long moment, then released my wrists and sat back on his heels. "What's your name?"

"Aria," I said finally. No point in lying about that—my cover identity was solid.

"Aria." He repeated it like he was testing how it sounded. "Beautiful name."

I pushed myself up to sitting, very aware that we were still way too close together. "Thanks. My mom picked it out."

"The one with cancer?"

"The one with cancer," I confirmed, hating how easily the lie came.

He was quiet for a moment, then stood and offered me his hand. Against my better judgment, I took it. His palm was warm and calloused—not the soft hands of a banker.

"I have a proposition for you, Aria."

I raised an eyebrow. "I'm listening."

"Work for me. As my assistant."

"What?"

"You need money, I need..." he paused, and that dangerous smile was back, "interesting employees."

I stared at him. This was not how tonight was supposed to go. I was supposed to get in, plant the surveillance equipment, and get out. I was definitely not supposed to get caught by the target himself. And I absolutely was not supposed to find him attractive.

But this could work. Actually, this could work perfectly.

"What kind of assistant work?" I asked carefully.

"Office management. Scheduling. Light security." His eyes glittered with something that might have been amusement. "I think you'd be good at security."

Light security. Right. Because normal assistants definitely needed security training.

"What's the pay?"

He named a figure that made my eyes widen. It was more than most people made in a year.

"That's... generous."

"I value loyalty."

There was a weight to the way he said it that made me think loyalty was very important to him. And very rare.

"I'll do it," I said, because really, what choice did I have? This was the opportunity I'd been hoping for—a way into the Romano family organization. Morrison would be thrilled.

He pulled out his phone and handed it to me. "Put your number in."

I typed it in and handed it back. "When do I start?"

"Tomorrow. Nine AM." He straightened his tie like we'd just finished a normal job interview instead of a life-or-death struggle forty-two floors up. "Don't be late, Aria."

The way he said my name sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the October cold still seeping through the open window.

"I'm never late," I said.

"Good." He moved to close the window, pausing to look back at me. "And Aria? Next time you want to break into someone's office, try the front door. It's less dramatic."

I was still standing there, trying to process what had just happened, when he added almost softly:

"Welcome to the game."