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Which is why I’m at this charity ball.
After a round of excruciating small talk, I climb the stairs to where I saw my target heading.
I stop around the corner when I spot two buff men scrutinizing the area with eyes fully devout of humanity.
In my line of work, I see people like them all the time. Men who are so far gone that they deteriorate to the animal category.
And the worst part is, they’re fully comfortable that way.
Just like my father.
My target comes out of the restroom, looking refined in his handmade three-piece Italian suit and matching leather shoes.
He moves with the confidence of a man who’s well aware that the world is at his fingertips and people are mere vessels at his disposal.
The moment he rounds the corner, I pretend to stumble and spill my half-full champagne flute all over his expensive suit.
A flash of movement is all the warning I get before I’m slammed against the nearest wall, both my hands locked behind my back. The glass of champagne crashes to the floor and my face is smashed against the surface. While I was ready for such a reaction, I didn’t sign up to have my cheekbone broken.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” I say in a half-muffled voice, but my words aren’t directed at the guard who’s jamming my head into the wall.
They’re for the man who hasn’t even glanced at his wet clothes and is watching me with unnerving attention.
“I’ll pay for the dry cleaning,” I offer, my voice still calm, considering my situation.
I’ve been manhandled countless times, but not once have I cowered like a scared kitten. It still gets on my last nerve, though.
I catch my target waving off his guard and he releases me not so gently, leaving what I’m sure are bruises on my wrists.
Small sacrifices.
I turn around and come face to face with none other than Nicolo Luciano.
The underboss of the Luciano crime family.
The tenth generation of a line of underworld lords who’ve run New York City for almost a century.
He has a terrifying calmness to him, a beauty that’s shrouded by the stench of blood and the decadence of rotten money.
He’s a shock of darkness—black hair, dark eyes, and a grim expression that could be used as a lethal weapon.
“I’m truly sorry.” I guard my light tone, wincing at the sight of his soaked jacket.
“No, you’re not.” He speaks with a hint of a refined Italian accent, like aristocracy. “You did that to get my attention, and you got it at the expense of my clothes that are worth more than selling you on the black market for body parts. So how about you spare us both the nonsense and tell me why you’re interested in my attention? Think carefully, for your livelihood and next shipping address depends on the answer.”
I swallow, realizing that I might have bitten off more than I can chew. But I don’t consider backing down. My chances of being a mother worthy of Gwen depend on it.
“My name is Aspen Leblanc, and you want me on your legal team.”
He raises a brow. “And what makes you think I’m hiring?”
“Nothing, but you should be.”
“Elaborate, and make it both quick and convincing. Your zip code is changing as we speak.”
I raise my chin, adopting my legal voice. “I noticed you only have criminal attorneys by your side and while those are good for getting an underling out of jail or in case of murder, they’re absolutely useless when it comes to earning profit. You need a civil attorney, one specializing in corporate law, to end legal quarrels, strikes, and get you state compensation. I’m also able to find tax loopholes for you.”
“I can get those my way.”
