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Chapter 21
“You look oddly well rested.”
Taking a bite of my croissant, I look across my desk at Jonas, cocking an eyebrow. “Oddly?”
Scrubbing a hand over his beard, he shrugs, shuffling through the papers in front of him. “In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you look like anything less than a zombie. Just a bit interesting, that’s all.”
“Interesting,” I repeat, swallowing the last bite of pastry. “That’s a fancy word for boring.”
“Ah, deflection. So, it does have something to do with a certain little lass.” He leans back in his chair, folding his hands together. “Did you finally consummate your marriage?”
“I’m not talking about that with you.”
“Consider it—what’s that American football term? Running interference?” He pulls a packet from the bottom of his stack of papers; it’s the contract I signed years ago, just before my grandfather’s passing, giving me access to a multimillion-dollar trust fund the old bastard had set up in my name.
He’d already signed over ownership rights to a half dozen businesses on Aplana, as well as stocks and shareholdings in a variety of different companies, but I suppose he never quit trying to atone for only finding out about me when it was too late to save my soul.
One stipulation for the trust was that I had to be at least twenty-five before the funds became available to me. And I had to be clean, which meant extracting myself from the life of crime I’d fallen into.
A much more difficult feat than outsiders seem to realize.
Once you’re part of the mafia, that’s it. They don’t let their people go without a fight; frankly, when I let Rafe know months ago about me wanting to step down, I’d expected more resistance than I got.
I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop with that one.
Another condition was that I had to be married, and it had to be legitimate.
Of course, having amassed my own wealth over the years, I had no interest in bowing to the terms just for my paternal grandfather’s guilt money.
But then, I tried reconnecting with my sister; her and our two brothers had been strategically left out of the will, the inheritance, and the trust fund.
In fact, they were never even supposed to see a penny from it, which is why I’d been writing Violet’s checks from my own savings, intending to transfer the trust money into an offshore account and leave the personal bank information with her.
But she kept rejecting my checks, and as the expiration date to access the trust funds drew nearer, I knew drastic measures needed to be taken.
I knew Miles, my grandfather’s estate attorney, would eventually come by for the proof. I just had put it on the back burner recently, with all the other things going on in my life taking precedence.
“No one would use a football term to describe meddling,” I say, brushing crumbs from my desk into a trash can, and taking the contract from him. I flip through the neatly printed pages, noting the scribble of my signature and the neat cursive of my grandfather’s at the bottom of each page.
“In any case, your expiration date is pretty soon. How are you planning on proving to Miles that you’re serious about Elena?”
Tapping my finger on the page above the marriage clause, I exhale. Under normal circumstances, the existence of a wedding at all would prove my loyalty, but in a world where marriages are forged all the time for this exact reason, I suppose I can’t begrudge my grandfather for wanting to secure his legacy.
And it’s not like my marriage is real where it matters—in our souls.
Our hearts.
Just on paper, and in our bed.
Scrubbing a hand down the side of my face, I sigh. “Well, I’m certainly not giving them bloody virginal bedsheets.”
“She wouldn’t have them now, anyway.”
I narrow my eyes at him, and he shifts in his seat, toying with the collar of his leather jacket.
“Birth control,” I say finally, remembering the conversation I had with Elena after fucking her silly in the shower.
Jonas cocks an eyebrow. “Please tell me you’re using it.”
