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"Mike?" I check.
"Should be upstairs waiting for you." He flashes a smile at Sybil, who's looking between us with irritation. "Ace and I can wait out here until everything is ready. Unless you want another witness—in which case, I'd love to see how this will play out."
"Who's Mike?" she asks impatiently. "God, this is annoying. If you're trying to scare me with all the vagueness, it isn't working."
I ignore her. "Stay here. I'll call you in a few. And check in on the situation at the lodge. The Gattos might show up there once they get my gift. If they do, I'd like to personally welcome them."
He laughs and lumbers away, back to where Ace is waiting with the window rolled down and curiosity brimming on his scarred face. I finally glance down at Sybil, who folds her arms. Her expression is severe and guarded. I take it to mean the small truce we shared last night isn't up for discussion.
But no matter. Percy was right. Bringing her here is the first step in showing her how serious I am about this contract. This will be the start of another truce—one that will be mutually beneficial.
"Mike is a lawyer," I offer in the spirit of this new ceasefire. "A friend of mine."
She makes a face and wrinkles her cute little nose at the grand penthouse apartment beside us. "Yeah, right. Because mobsters and lawyers are always the best of pals. But he must be one hell of a lawyer to afford a place like this. It must cost millions."
"Mike is from California. He doesn't live here." I open one of the doors for her. "I do."
Sybil's eyes bug out, and she makes no move to enter. "You…no. Bullshit. I don't believe you."
"Seeing is believing," I say impatiently, taking her arm and pulling her in ahead of me.
She's quietly disbelieving as we step into the elevator, and I press the button for the penthouse. Then she scoffs. "You want me to believe you, Nico Attolini, a murderous mobster, live on the top story of a place likethis?"
"I live on all the floors. This building is mine."
She seethes disbelief until the elevator doors open, and then I watch with satisfaction as her mouth pops open into a perfect little 'o.' This is my favorite room in my apartment, so I'm glad it impresses her.
The walls are glass, looking out over the East River and Roosevelt Island with a view of more of the city spanning below. The Italian interior decorator I hired had a style that reminded me of my childhood home: Sicilian-style wall art, exposed bricks, dark-stained woods, and crisp white leather furniture. It's minimalistic but warm and rich at the same time. Everything is meticulously clean since I wouldn't stand anything less. This is only half of the true penthouse, with the door to my bedroom just beside the elevator doors.
I step into the light-filled room, raising an eyebrow at Sybil. She stubbornly retreats further into the elevator, squinting at me.
Mike is waiting on one of the sofas surrounding the large coffee table in the center of this main room. When I step in, he stands with a bright smile. The man looks like his home state—blond and tan with an ultra-white smile. He's dressed in a suit as crisp and tailored as mine and looks every bit the nationally top-ranked lawyer that he is. No one would suspect he's crooked or that his family has been tied to the Attolini family for generations.
He reaches out a hand as he approaches. "Dom! My man, it's good to see you again. I didn't expect your call, but then I never do. How are things here, huh?"
"Busy." I shake his hand and gesture at Sybil behind me. "This is Sybil Rivera. Sybil, this is Mike."
She finally steps into the penthouse, pursing her lips as she examines him. "You're a lawyer, Mike?"
"I sure am."
She opens her mouth, and I can see the words on the tip of her tongue. She wants to warn him he's helping a mobster, someone with an illegal past. But she must rememberomertáand think better of it because she just folds her arms and glares at me.
"Okay. And Mike here thinks your name is Dom?"
He flashes another bright smile, winking at her in a conspiratorial way that makes my fists clench. "Dom Fiore, Nico Attolini…names don't matter as much as money, Miss Rivera. And your man here has enough of that to be whoever he wants. Families don't need to get in the way of that."
Sybil blanches at his words. She's thrown enough by this situation that she doesn't fight me when I place a hand on the small of her back to lead her to the couch. She sits beside me when I prompt her to, looking between us as if we're speaking another language while Mike pulls out the documents. He chats about the weather in California, gushing about his flight here on my private plane. I reply when needed but mostly watch Sybil wring her hands and examine my home as if seeing it in a new light—as if she's accepting it's really mine.
When I catch her eye and raise a brow, she discreetly flips me off. I restrain a smile.
"So, Miss Rivera," Mike cuts in, pushing the neat stack of papers toward her. "If you want to read through it, go right ahead. It's all clean-cut and legally binding, of course. It reads like a surrogacy or pre-conception agreement, but the finer details are up to you and Mr. Fiore's discretion. The main thing it outlines is the exchange. For your part, you'll get continuous security for you and your family effective upon signing, a million dollars in your bank account upon confirmed conception—which you can take in installments if you prefer—and a few other bells and whistles. In exchange for all of that, Mr. Fiore gets custody of the child."
Sybil is stiff and still guarded, but I can read some of her internal debate in her expression. She wants her family's protection, but she's wary. "I'm not signing anything I don't read in full first."
"Then read," I suggest.
She skims the pages of the contract, brow furrowing now and then. She bites her lip. The refurbished antique grandfather clock in one corner of the room clicks brightly the entire time while Mike scrolls through his phone, and I wait.
