Chapter 2
Patrick
Whiskey swirled in my glass, the amber liquid catching the neon glow outside. I should've been in bed, but my brain wouldn't shut off. All I could see was that fiery paprika, gripping a bottle, ready to smash it over some guy's head.
Avery Morris.
Damn, she looked way better than in her photos. In those pics, she seemed worn out, ordinary, just another girl scraping by in this city. But when she glared at that drunk, eyes blazing with fury? She was a goddamn warrior.
And that body... Jesus. Curvy, full-figured, spilling out of that cheap V-neck uniform. The kind of womanly curves that make a man want to pin her against a wall, hands exploring every soft inch—
Cool it, Patrick. This is business.
I took a swig of whiskey, letting the burn snap me back to reality.
"Still up?" Victor's voice came from behind.
My chief advisor and right-hand man stepped into the study, tablet in hand. Victor was forty-five, bald, lean, and sharp-eyed like a hawk. He'd been with me fifteen years, knew everything about me—including the shit that could land me in prison for life.
"Can't sleep," I said. "Word out yet?"
"It is," Victor sat on the sofa, handing me the tablet. "Social media's blowing up. 'South Dock Arson Linked to Winchester Group,' 'Winchester Ties to Crime,' 'Businessman or Mobster? The Truth'—all this crap. Board's calling an emergency meeting tomorrow."
I skimmed the headlines, smirking. "Let 'em. Those old bastards do nothing but whine."
"Stock's the issue," Victor said, dead serious. "We're down 15% this week. You can't let your guys run wild anymore. You know how hard we've worked to legitimize the business. If this dirt keeps heating up, it'll undo everything."
"I know. A few restless worms. Sergei's handling it," I tossed the tablet back. "I've got a plan for the image."
Victor raised an eyebrow. "Ideal Family? You sure about jumping into that sappy trash show?"
"Got a better idea?" I turned to face him. "The public wants a family man, loving, responsible dad and husband? I'll give it to 'em. Me, Patrick Winchester, the ultimate good guy. They'll eat it up, rumors die. Smart, right?"
"But you've been divorced for four years," Victor pointed out. "And honestly, your dating history—"
"I know," I cut him off. My "dates" lately? One-night stands—fancy hotels, hot women, walk away next morning. Clean, no strings.
Just how I like it.
But not what the public wants.
"So you picked up a waitress at a bar," Victor said, skeptical. "Avery Morris. I checked her file. Clean background, no record, zero mob ties. But Patrick... she's too plain. Will viewers buy it?"
"They love Cinderella stories," I said. "And she's got fire. You should've seen her about to brain that drunk."
Victor eyed me for a few seconds, then grinned slowly. "You like her."
"I admire her fight," I corrected. "Different."
"Sure," Victor's grin widened, the bastard. "Just admiration."
"Get out," I said, but my lips twitched.
Victor stood and paused at the door. "By the way, South Dock shipment's secure. Cop informant handled."
I nodded. South Dock—my underground casino, pulling seven figures monthly. Looks like an abandoned warehouse, but the basement's the city's ritziest spot. Politicians, execs, mob bosses... anyone needing "privacy" gambles there.
I take a cut from every game.
"Vasily?" I asked. Vasily ran Manhattan's upstart gang, always sniffing at my turf.
"Quiet for now," Victor said. "But I don't trust him. Bastard's plotting, I feel it."
"Watch him," I said. "If he moves, teach him the rules."
Victor nodded, left.
I turned back to the window, the city night sprawling below.
Most see Winchester Group—real estate, finance, tech, charity. Legit empire.
That's the surface.
In the shadows, I run the underworld. Casinos, loansharking, smuggling... all the gray-zone cash. Started in the Russian mob, grew up on kills and betrayals. Took over from the old Pakhan at twenty-five, cleared rivals by thirty, became king of this city.
Blood on my hands.
But Ethan gets a good life. Safe home.
That's enough.
I checked the time—three-thirty. Eleven hours till Avery shows at the manor.
Or bails.
Honestly, I bet she comes. Girl needs cash, got that stubborn pride—won't quit easy.
Phone buzzed. Screen lit: Avery Morris confirmed appointment.
My lips curved.
Good, paprika. Let's see your guts.
Two fifty-five PM, I sat in my leather chair, fingers drumming the desk.
Winchester Manor's study was my favorite—dark wood shelves, fireplace, big windows, Italian oak desk. My turf, my war room.
Victor had the contract ready, thirty pages, lawyer-vetted. Fair, legal, all in my favor.
The doorbell rang.
I glanced at the monitor.
Avery at the door, simple jeans and white tee, old canvas bag slung over. Damn, something about her—those tight jeans hugging her ass, soft as hell, fuck.
She looked nervous, biting her lip, gripping the strap.
But she showed. Knew my hunts never miss.
I hit the intercom. "Come in."
The gate swung open. On camera, she crossed the drive, eyes wide on the estate—five acres, three stories, pool, gardens, tennis court. Thirty million dollars, but to me? Just a roof.
Butler led her to the study.
"Miss Morris's here, sir."
"Send her in."
The door opened, and Avery stepped inside.
Her eyes scanned—shelves, fireplace, art—then hit me. I saw her throat bob.
Interesting.
"Miss Morris." I approached. "Punctual. I like that."
"Mom taught me it's a virtue," she said, voice guarded. "Though she probably didn't mean using it to sell myself."
I chuckled. "'Sell yourself'? This is a business deal, Avery. Not that kind."
"Oh, so no... services expected?" She arched a brow. "'Cause if so, I'm out. And I'll crack that tequila over your head."
I laughed hard. Damn, I liked her sass.
"No," I said, closing in. She was a foot shorter and had to look up. Pretty green eyes, wary now.
"I need an actress. One who plays my loving wife on camera. As for... other stuff," I paused, watching her flush. "If you offer, I won't turn down a beauty like you."
She blushed, rolled her eyes. "I won't offer."
"Then we're good," I stepped back, gestured to sit. "Drink? Coffee? Tea? Or tequila?"
She rolled her eyes and sat stiff-backed on the sofa. "Cut to the chase. Not here to chat."
Loved her directness.
I sat opposite, slid the contract over. "Here's the agreement. Thirty pages of legalese. Read slowly, or have your lawyer check on it. No rush."
She stared at the stack, bit her lip. "I... don't have one."
"I can get you—"
"No," she cut in, eyeing me warily. "I'll read it."
Cute, like a raccoon with a stepped-on tail.
I shrugged. "Go ahead."
She grabbed it, flipped page by page. Brows furrowed deeper, fingers lingered on clauses, lips mouthing terms.
Took her twenty minutes.
I sat, sipped whiskey, watched. Watched her bite her lip, sneak peeks at me then duck down. Acting tough, but I could tell she was tense as fuck..
"So," she looked up. "I get it. Fake loving you, play perfect wife on camera, one month till filming wraps. You pay two million, right?"
"Right."
"And in public, intimacy is requested..." Flush again. "Holding hands, hugs, kisses."
"Yeah. Public only," I stressed. "In private, we keep a professional distance. Separate rooms, space."
"What about your son?" Sharp eyes now. "Contract mentions Ethan. He knows it's fake?"
"No," I said. "He's five. Better he thinks it's real... for him."
She went quiet, thoughtful. "You really have a kid?"
"Yeah."
"You didn't mention."
"You didn't ask."
Her eyes narrowed. "Anything else you 'forgot to mention'? Like you're a serial killer? Or got ten bastards?"
"Only one," I said, smirking. "And no serial killing. No time with an empire to run."
"Not funny," she said, but her lips twitched.
"You're right," I leaned in. "Your call?"
She shut her eyes, breathed deeply, and opened them with resolve, a wry smile.
"Fine, I'm in." Her voice was oddly light. "Hell of a Valentine's gift. Beats my ex's fake necklace. Least your check's real."
I paused, then laughed. "Yeah, real checks. And Mrs. Winchester's necklaces will be too."
"Don't call me that," she said, softer.
"But it's your name next month," I reminded. "Get used to it."
She stared, grabbed the pen. "If you screw me over, Mr. Winchester, hurt me or try anything... wrong," her eyes got fierce, "I'll blow it all open, watch your empire crash. Got it?"
I laughed. This paprika thinks she can threaten me? But damn, I loved her guts. Loved how she clawed even scared.
"Got it," I said and offered my hand. "Deal?"
She eyed it, hesitated, gripped.
"Deal."
Her hand was warm, soft, and small in mine. I squeezed, felt her tremble. But she held.
She signed hard, like declaring war.
Done, she looked up. "Now what? When do we leave?"
"Chopper's waiting." I checked my watch.
"So soon?! You had it ready before I got here? What if I said no?" Her eyes went wide. She looked even cuter, making me want to tease.
"No option. I'd tie you up, haul you on."
Her eye-roll thrilled me.
"Fine. Just kidding. I trust my gut, trust you. Let's go."
"What?" She jumped. "Now? I haven't packed anything! I'm not ready! I—"
"You don't need to," I cut in. "Island's got everything. Clothes, makeup, shoes. Sized for you."
Eyes widened. "How'd you know my size?"
"Your file, remember?"
"Creepy," she muttered, incredulous, but followed me out.
Half an hour later, we boarded my private chopper.
Avery sat beside me, tense as a cat stuck in a tree. She gripped the seatbelt tightly, eyes fixed on the receding city, her face as if she were watching her own funeral.
"Relax," I said. "Pilot's ex-Air Force, twenty years. Odds of a crash are less than getting mugged in Manhattan."
"I'm not worried about the pilot." Her voice was tight as a snapped string. "I'm worried about...everything. I just sold my life to a stranger. Maybe a serial killer."
"We cleared that," I reminded.