Chapter Two
CHAPTER TWO
Saff
Life went back to so much normal for so long that I almost forgot all about the plan to become a fake businesswoman.
Until, of course, my new cell Renzo had given me solely for dealing with legitimate business stuff started to ring.
I was so shit at playing my part that I swiped to answer before Bastian pulled it out of my hand with an exasperated look.
“Hello? Yes, this is Miss Amato’s phone. Who am I speaking to?”
Leave it to Bastian, a former street kid who’d spent years in prison, to have better manners than me.
“Tomorrow?” he asked, looking at me. I gave him a shrug. “She might be able to fit that in. What time? Three? Yes, that will work. What’s the address?”
Bastian snatched my other phone out of my hands, typing on it to, I imagine, get the address down before he forgot it.
“She will be there. You too. Bye now.”
“’Bye now,’?” I asked, brows raising.
“Businesspeople don’t just hang up like a certain someone,” he said, giving me a knowing look as he passed me back both my phones.
“I’m having a meeting with Vale?”
“He wants to discuss the deal at his main office. But I imagine he is also going to want a tour of the venue. So you might want to get your lazy ass over there to check it out, so it seems like you actually own the place. Or do you have some serial killer who falls in love with an undercover FBI agent to read about?”
I didn’t snap at him for two reasons. One, I knew I wasn’t lazy. I worked twice as hard as any of the men to get the same level of respect on the streets and among other crime syndicates. Two, well, I had been lazy about the whole nightclub thing. Sure, I’d signed the paperwork with Renzo. I’d even bought myself some “respectable” clothes with the help of Elian’s girl, Elizabeth. I figured her experience as a former political campaign manager meant she had a finger on the pulse of what was appropriate to wear to professional events.
Other than that, though, the closest thing you could say I’d done to research was participate in book club, where we read a romance about some cold hard rich bitch who owned a bunch of companies and was having an affair with the man who wanted to buy her out.
To be fair, it was more coital reverie than, you know, plot.
We’d spent almost the entire book club discussion ranking the various sex scenes in order of both sexiness and believability.
We were shocked to realize there were twenty such scenes.
In a two-hundred-fifty-page book.
So, yeah, it didn’t leave much room for actual business. “You also need to get an appointment to dye your hair,” Bass said, dragging a grumble out of me.
I’d almost forgotten about the hair.
Fine, I wanted to forget about the hair.
And now I was short on time to remedy the situation.
“Fine. I gotta go then,” I said, tucking my phones away.
“I’ll pick you up at two.”
“For what?”
“To go to the meeting. I’m your assistant now, it seems. I guess Serano can be your driver.”
The last thing I wanted was for Bass to be a witness when I likely fell on my face a time or two in the meeting. But I also couldn’t openly defy Renzo.
“Fine.”
“Try to contain your enthusiasm, babe,” Bass said as I made my way to the door.
I had nothing to say to that. He was right; I wasn’t exactly looking forward to a meeting at some upper-crust office building where they served cucumber water and used country-club speak.
I made my way across town, coming up to the building that had been abandoned for as long as I could remember.
The windows were boarded and had long since been the recipients of various forms of graffiti—some much more imaginative than others. Like anyone cares that Brandon was here . Though it almost seemed a shame to pull down the one that featured slashes of bright pinks and reds that was vaguely vaginal-looking.
I stuck the key in the lock, only mildly surprised that someone hadn’t broken it yet. Then again, if anyone got wind that it was in any way associated with the family, they’d know to stay far away from it.
It made a metallic groan as I moved inside. I was met with the scent of dust and dampness, making my nose crinkle as I wished there was one window to crack to air it out.
Using my phone’s flashlight as a torch, I made my way through the surprisingly spacious building.
There was a small entry room with a podium and some old wooden benches, making me think that this had perhaps been the waiting area of a restaurant in its former life.
Through the doorway, the building opened up into one long space with a bar to the left and a stage to the back, as well as staircases on each side that led up to a balcony overlooking the lower floor.
To the right was a small hallway that led to both bathrooms, a supply closet—a year’s worth of yellowed paper towels were included with the sale, it seemed—and, finally an office, empty save for the wrap-around desk and a printer that was straight out of the ‘90s.
I made my way back out, hearing a scuttling.
Rats.
You couldn’t avoid them.
Not even when the whole building felt airless.
I made my way up the steps that I thought were possibly the dumbest thing you could put in a place that served liquor. Save for maybe a chapel.
I mean, the liability alone of allowing drunk people to stumble up and then potentially fall to their deaths or disfigurement sounded like a headache I’d rather avoid entirely.
That said, it was kind of a great view.
I leaned on the railing, looking down at the floor below, picturing a sought-after DJ on the stage, hands dancing back and forth on the turntables as the crowd threw up their hands and moved their bodies against strangers.
Honestly, it was a shame Renzo sat on this place as long as he had. The neighborhood could use a decent club.
Once I was sure I’d seen all there was to see, I made my way back out and walked down to the closest pharmacy, grumbling at the hair dye aisle.
Until I found it.
Semi-permanent dye.
I could just… dye it each time I needed to see this Soren guy, then shampoo it out right after.
I could keep my promise to Renzo while not compromising my identity.
Feeling lighter, I made my way back to my apartment in one of the largest buildings in the area. I liked the hustle and bustle. The more neighbors you had, the less I found they gave a shit about what you did or when you came and went.
I didn’t have to water anybody’s plants or sign for their packages. And I didn’t have to feel one iota of embarrassment sitting in the laundry room reading a book with a shirtless man on the cover with a title like Railed by the Rival Warlord while eating my spicy chips and drinking a chocolate milk. Because I didn’t give a damn who saw me and what they thought.
That said, my apartment was absolutely my little slice of paradise in a loud, busy, often ugly and dirty city.
Don’t get me wrong; I loved the loud, busy, ugly, and dirtiness of it. But I’d spent my entire life not having a place to call my own. So once I got grown-up money and could get an apartment, I spent months decorating it just how I wanted. Did it mean I also gave building rules and my security the middle finger? Absolutely. But I didn’t regret it for a second.
I was met immediately with the scent of my place.
Strawberry sweet cream.
It was the same scent I washed my body with and slathered all over my skin afterward. But only at night before bed. Because make no mistake, if I showed up to work smelling like strawberry sweet cream, one of the guys would have something to say about it.
It was a pretty average-sized apartment, somewhere around eight hundred and fifty feet with only one bedroom, which allowed more of the square footage to go to the common area.
I took full advantage of it, putting not only a charcoal gray sectional in the living room, but a round cozy reading chair I’d seen going viral online and decided I had to have all to myself. Most of the time, I found myself falling asleep in it now. It was the messiest area in my house, sporting several pillows for strategic propping during long reading sessions, two soft blankets, a stack of books, and a small caddy that had all the things I needed to annotate book club books: sticky notes in pastel colors, pens, highlighters, and bookmarks.
Behind the chair was a lamp that hung over. To the side of it, a table for drinks and snacks.
On the wall that the sectional faced was a built-in unit I’d painted black, stretching from floor to ceiling with bookshelves and only a small gap for a TV I rarely ever watched.
Sucking in a deep breath, I walked over to my least-used room: the kitchen. It served mostly as the place where my coffee maker lived. And my leftovers were stored.
I went to the island, grabbing the lighter, and igniting the wick on the strawberry sweet cream candle, inhaling a deep breath before making my way into the hall bathroom.
I’d done wrote a bit of unapproved remodeling—tearing out the old, cracked little white square tiles and replacing them with big square slate tiles instead, walls and bath niche and all. The vanity was also new and floating with light under it so I could stumble in half-asleep and not have to turn on the big light.
Standing in front of the mirror, I pulled out the dye kit, set all the steps up, then reached to pull off my shirt.
“Alright, here goes nothing.”
I was no stranger to dyeing my own hair. I maintained my signature blue color without the assistance of a salon.
What can I say? Save for the random night when I chose to bring a man to bed, I didn’t like having people touch me.
Besides, I was a former foster, then street, kid. If I could save money, I usually chose to. And a ten-dollar box of dye seemed a lot smarter option than three hundred bucks at a salon.
I knew that the me I was turning myself into as I shook the bottle of thick brown liquid and streaked it through my hair was someone who wouldn’t have the same money wounds as I did. I’d have to make sure I didn’t balk at prices or suggest cheaper options.
I mean, it wasn’t even going to be my money anyway.
I set the timer but stayed in front of the mirror, practicing my rich-bitch face, talking through introductions and possible avenues of conversation until I was sure I was coming across as a believable, calm, collected businesswoman who likely came from old money. The kind of woman who took horseback riding lessons and whose dad golfed on the weekends to get away from her nag of a socialite mother.
Only then could I rinse out the dye and go to bed.
Only to wake up and need to do it all over again as I washed, dried, and straightened my wavy dark hair, applied minimal makeup, slipped in some unassuming little diamond studs, then slipped into the wide-legged gray slacks that I was told would flatter my short, thick-thighed body, and tight, white, short-sleeve sweater that Elizabeth had helped me pick out.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped back to look at my reflection.
“Who the hell are you?” I asked the reflection with her covered-up freckles over her nose, the understated mascara around her light brown eyes that took on a slightly gray hue in the bathroom lighting, and her dark brown hair.
I looked older.
Serious.
And maybe, just maybe, like I could actually pull this thing off.