The CEO’s Secret Triplets
Then, without a word, he picked up Lucas’s heavy leather boots—the six-year-old size with the torn laces—and set them directly over the wet seam where the door met the sill, blocking the black water with the weight of the leather.
"The boots are the wall, Julianna," Dante said softly, his jaw setting into that flat, unyielding line that had nothing to do with the Boston filing.
"Does the wall stay until Monday?" the little girl asked.
Dante looked at the five pairs of shoes, then looked up at the dark timber ceiling where the rain was hitting the tin flashing like a hammer. He felt the small, hard circle of the gold ring against his thigh—an anchor in a house that was running out of brown
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