I tap the bar twice and head for the door.
Outside, the bluish orange dusk settles over the Southie rooftops, the air warm against my skin. I head toward my Audi R8 parked at the curb.
My phone buzzes with an incoming message and I pull it out of my pocket, furrowing my brow at the unknown number.
I open the text.
Mr. Molloy, this is Adriana DiMicheli’s assistant. Ms. DiMicheli has requested a meeting tomorrow at 10 AM to discuss your arrangement. Please confirm your availability. An address will follow.
Her assistant. Shit. I don’t even qualify for a personal text.
Jesus, she’s already running this like a business deal. Working through her people to schedule time with me to talkabout the contract, like we’re lawyers negotiating terms or whatever.
My lips curl upward.
Good power move.
I type back two words.
I’m available.
I pocket my phone and click my alarm as thoughts of Adriana wallpaper my mind. Somewhere across the city, she’s probably color-coding a spreadsheet of demands and drawing up contingency plans for every possible outcome of tomorrow’s meeting. Because that’s what she does. She prepares. She strategizes. She controls.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, Cillian’s voice whispers, “You’re already in over your head, brother.”
He’s not wrong.
But the thing about being in over your head is that you have two choices — drown or learn to swim.
And I’ve never been much of a drowning man.
CHAPTER 5
ADRIANA
I’ve closeddeals worth more than some countries’ GDPs. I’ve stared down CEOs who thought they could intimidate me with their corner offices and their seven-figure egos. I’ve walked into boardrooms where I was the only woman and walked out owning the men still sitting at the table.
This should be nothing.
So why are my palms sweating?
Sleep was impossible last night. I finally gave up around three and spent hours reviewing every piece of information I could find on the Molloy family — their businesses, their territory, their enemies. I made lists. Ran scenarios. Rehearsed my demands. Dranklotsof coffee.
Preparation is control. Control is survival.
I check my reflection in the elevator doors of my building. Navy blazer. White silk blouse. Hair pulled back in a low bun that saysI mean business. Diamond studs my father gave me for my thirtieth birthday. Every bit of it is my armor.
My phone buzzes with a text from Luna.
How are you feeling?
I type back as the elevator slowly creeps upward.
Fine. I’m ready.
I blow out a breath, my pulse thrumming against my neck as the numbers light up above me. Dammit, I need to pull myself together. Nothing shakes me, especially not a sham marriage contract.
Liar. Call me after?
