Page 22 of Wrong Pawn. Right Capo.

That trust was my advantage. After QA was done at the supplier’s warehouse and all paperwork was signed, all it took was that one stop at the coffee shop for my men to move in and switch a few jars, right at the very top of the shipment. They replaced the most accessible ones, the first ones within reach, exactly where I predicted the tester would pick from on the night of the deal.

“I can promise, Hale, we had nothing to do with it.” Sweat is dripping from all over Hale now, a small tuft of smoke curling up from his finger.

Hale scoffs, voice thickening with anger. “You Rossi boys always try to act innocent.” He turns on his heel, gestures sharply to his men. “We’re done here. I never want to set eyes on you or Enzo Marcini again, or I’ll be taking back more than my pound of flesh.”

As soon as he turns around, the room erupts. Bullets fly everywhere as men collapse to the ground like dominos, including the supplier.

I don’t stay to watch it implode completely. We’ll all hear about it in the morning.

Heading for the exit, I type a text to my source: Bait taken.

It’s boring watching them bicker in the fallout, so I increase my pace and head back to the mansion.

A slow smile tugs at my lips. Cheers to the first of many.

Chapter seven

Elena

The studio for today’s campaign shoot sits on the twenty-first floor of a renovated glass building.

Assistants flit around like nervous birds, carrying garment bags, clipboards, and trays of green juice I’m definitely not drinking.

Everywhere I look, there’s soft gold light bouncing off mirrored panels and sheer curtains. It’s the definition of aesthetically perfect.

Partnering with Maya Hart, social media’s sweetheart, a face-card-never-declining type of girl, will skyrocket my engagement numbers exactly to where I need them. My analytics team sent me a report this morning: engagement hasn’t recovered the way I want. I need this campaign to hit, and hit hard.

I adjust the sleeve of the silk robe the stylist gave me and catch my reflection in one of the long mirrors. My lips are slicked with a shade from the new line. It gleams softly, like crushed petals. The assistants murmur something about lighting adjustments, but I’m not paying attention.

Because I can feel him.

Adrian stands near the far wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on me with that maddening mix of irritation and vigilance. He’s in a black suit again today with a charcoal shirt that looks like it was tailored directly to his skin.

He hates being here. I can tell by the way his jaw ticks every now and then, like he’s fighting the urge to strangle someone. Probably me. Maybe everyone.

But he never takes his eyes off me—not for one second.

The photographer, Louis, a man in his late thirties with a curated stubble and carefree personality, comes toward me holding the tablet where he reviews the shots.

“Let’s do the next set,” he says, rubbing his hand lightly on my shoulder as he nudges me toward the backdrop. “Chin up a bit, Elena. I want to catch more of the collarbone.”

His hand slides from my shoulder to my neck, tracing along my collarbone. My body stiffens with discomfort. Get your hands off me, motherfucker, I nearly hiss, but the air suddenly shifts behind me. It’s almost like I know what’s coming before it happens.

A dark figure blurs in my peripheral vision. Adrian moves so fast that the wind reaches me before the sound does.

One second, Louis is adjusting the angle of his camera, the next, Adrian has him by the collar, driving an uppercut straight into his pretty face.

A sickening crack echoes through the studio.

Louis collapses onto the floor, clutching his jaw, cursing through bloodied teeth.

Gasps ripple around the room. The stylists scream, Maya nearly drops her water bottle, and one of the assistants stumbles away like she’s just witnessed a murder.

But Adrian doesn’t look at anyone. Not the bleeding photographer, not the horrified staff, not even Enzo’s men guarding the exits. Instead, his furious eyes lock on me.

“No one touches you,” he growls, voice low and commanding. “Boss’s orders,” he adds after a pause.

Heat flares low in my abdomen. I can’t decide if I’m mad or turned on, even if he’s trying to hide whatever it is he’s… feeling right now behind a pathetic blanket of Enzo’s orders.