Hideaway
Page 87

He nodded. “Got it.”
Kai
Present
I moved absently through the ballroom, replaying everything in my head. That Devil’s Night all those years ago. Banks and me. The woman dancing.
How long had Natalya Torrance been there? How often did the Torrance’s use their secret floor? She had left Damon three years earlier. Had she been there the whole time?
There was something I was missing.
The morning light streamed through the windows, revealing the dust floating in the air, and I looked around, noticing the floor littered with flyers. There were stands for sheet music still sitting on the stage, and a few round tables around the dance floor.
I inhaled a deep breath, rubbing my eyes. She wanted to be close to him.
But then that raised another question. The Pope wasn’t very old. Where did the family stay when they were in town before The Pope was built? That was what picked at the back of my mind, and why I hadn’t paid any attention to it. It didn’t seem important, but it was weird.
And when something feels off, it is.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Michael called out.
I turned my head, seeing him come into the ballroom. I’d drug him out of bed and told him to meet me here. I should’ve told Will, but I’d rather someone stay close to Rika when Lev went over to pick them up.
I shook my head. “I know to listen to my instincts, and I ignored them.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
I turned toward him. “This place was built in the early nineties,” I told him, “but this was a family hotel, and the rumor circulated that the family had a secret floor in every hotel they owned.”
“So?” He sighed, looking tired.
“So, Damon’s family is one of the oldest in Thunder Bay,” I pointed out. “The Nikov’s have been in this area since the thirties. Wouldn’t it have made sense to start their businesses close like we’ve been doing to monitor them more easily before expanding abroad?”
They built hotels long before the nineties. Why wait to build one close to home until then?
“You’re right.” He stared off, looking lost in thought. “Why wouldn’t they have had a hotel in Meridian City first?”
Not to mention the fact that there had been no move to build another one or reopen this one. He didn’t want somewhere local where he could have business meetings, put up clients, host parties…? It made no sense.
It was probably nothing. So, he didn’t open a hotel close to home. It was odd, but so was the family.
I looked at Michael, shaking my head in exhaustion. My brain was fried.
But he was frozen. He stared ahead, focusing on nothing as the wheels turned in his head.
And then he breathed out, “Shit,” and dove into his pocket, pulling out his cell phone. “No, no, no…”
I advanced. What the hell?
He breathed hard, dialing a number and putting the phone to his ear. “Rika…”
“What’s wrong?” I barked.
But he just pointed at me, already walking for the door. “Get in the car!”
“What?”
He’d bolted, and I had to run to catch up to him. We ran out the back, and I didn’t argue or try to stop him. Michael never lost his head, and if he did, there was a reason. He jumped in his Rover, and I left my car next to it, hopping in his passenger side.
Before I even had the door closed, though, he’d punched the car into reverse and slammed on the gas, making my body vault forward. I shot out a hand to catch myself.
He sped down the alleyway and swung the car around, shifting into drive, and then took off down the city street and toward the bridge.
“Robson!” he yelled to whoever finally picked up the other line. “Who owned Delcour before us?”
Delcour? What—
He listened to the other man talk, worry etching his face. “I know it changed hands a lot,” he shouted. “But it was built in the thirties. Who built it?”
No, no, no…He didn’t think—
Delcour, the Crist family apartment building was a jewel in the black city. It was artfully designed, boasted the best views, and the architecture was mysterious and alluring.
And it easily could’ve been a hotel back in the day. It even had a ballroom.
Good God.
Michael raced, swerving around vehicles, and pulled the phone away from his ear, pushing more buttons. “Baby, come on, come on,” he pleaded, putting the phone to his ear again. “Come on. Answer the phone.”
“Delcour?” I shot out, turning to him. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
How?
“All this time,” he choked out, squeezing the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white. “The Torrance’s sold Delcour in the eighties and built the new hotel in Whitehall to profit off the stadium.”
“Delcour is the original Pope?”
He pulled his phone away, redialing. “Rika, goddammit!”
We crossed the bridge and sped through the warehouse district, turning onto Parker Avenue.
“You knew?” I pressed. “You knew they owned the building? It was their hotel at one point?”
“No, I didn’t know!” he growled. “We weren’t even born yet, for Christ’s sake! I just knew it was built in the thirties, and that we didn’t always own it.”
But Michael’s father’s lawyer just confirmed. The Torrance’s were the original owners. And if there was a hidden floor at The Pope, then…
“Rika, answer the fucking phone!”
He threw his cell against the windshield, and it tumbled across the dash and onto the floor.
“Just get there,” I gritted out.
White lace panties. You’ve got to be kidding me. He might’ve been in the building, but he couldn’t have gotten into their apartment, could he? Would he really have been there and been able to resist making contact with Will? Alex?
Michael hit the gas, horns honking around us, and pulled up in front of Delcour, screeching to a halt.
Throwing open our doors, we ran out of the car and into the building, the doorman scrambling to hold the door open.
“Did you see Rika?” Michael shouted to the man behind the desk as we ran to the elevator.
His eyes snapped up, going wide-eyed as he tried to find his words. “Uh, no sir.”
We got in the elevator, and Michael pressed the button, and the doors closed.
“Do you know if the building has a hidden floor or hidden apartment or anything?” I questioned.
He shook his head, sweat covering his brow. “I don’t know shit. I don’t pay attention to anything my family does. You know that.”
Which included buying this building or learning anything beyond what he needed to know to get his fucking ass to his penthouse, I gathered. He was so self-absorbed. Did he ever trouble himself to learn or listen to anything anyone said? Get curious, maybe? If it were me, and I had free rein of the place, I would’ve explored every corner of this building.
Not Michael, though.
Basketball, Rika, food, sex, and sleep were the only things catching his attention.
The elevator shot past twenty-one floors, and slowed to a stop at the top of the building. The doors opened, and Michael and I shot out, rounding the corner and racing into his apartment.
Lev and Will stood in the center of the living room, and Michael made right for them. “Do you have her? Where is she?”
“Hey, what’s up?”
Rika’s voice came from above, and my head snapped up, seeing her come down the stairs with a brown leather overnight bag.
Michael bolted up the stairs, skipping two at a time, and grabbed her. He wrapped his arms around her and lifted her up, hugging her.
I exhaled, dropping my head. He hadn’t taken her. Maybe he wasn’t here, after all.
“Baby,” Michael gasped. “Why the fuck didn’t you answer your phone?”
She hugged him back, looking confused. “I…It’s in my handbag, I think,” she stammered. “I was upstairs packing. What’s wrong?”
But he just shook his head. It was no time to explain.
“Sir,” another voice said, and I looked back to see Patterson, one of the building’s managers step into the penthouse. “Is something wrong? Jackson downstairs said there might be a problem.”