10. Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten
Ethan
“ M r. Cross,” Perpetual, my secretary, pulls my attention from the virtual meeting as she walks into my office. “There’s someone here to see you. He’s from the prosecutor’s office.”
Prosecutor?
My eyebrows furrow in a puzzled expression because I don’t remember having any dealings on that end. Concluding that it probably has something to do with Anthony—and sighing, I gesture for her to let him in.
Seconds later, a man walks in wearing a cheap suit with his hair slicked into two parts. I can smell the grease from his hair products as he approaches my desk. The smile plastered on his face does nothing to make me feel more receptive towards his presence.
“Mr. Cross,” he says, holding his briefcase in front of his body .
“You have something for me?” I question, going straight to the point. “Is it Anthony?”
“Your cousin?” He shakes his head. “No. This is regarding your affairs, Mr. Cross,” he explains, pulling back a chair and sitting without invitation. Irritation lodges at the base of my throat, but I dismiss it.
His response sparks curiosity, although it comes with a very short rope. “What about my affairs?” I ask curtly, keeping the warmth out of my tone so he knows I’m not interested in anything other than facts.
I arch a brow, and an uneasy feeling creeps up my throat, settling with a heavy, suspicious weight. I watch as he opens his briefcase and slides a document across the table. Judging the content by the cover, I hesitate for a moment before placing my hand on it.
I don’t open, though. In my line of business, I’ve learned that the slightest change in body language or facial expression is enough to give the enemy an edge over you.
If there’s something in there—something worth reacting to—I want to read it in private.
“I don’t have time to waste…” I leave the rest unsaid, fixing him with a pointed look.
He clears his throat. “Geller,” he supplies. “Joe Geller.”
Right. And Joe Geller just became a person of interest.
I point to the document. “What is in here, Mr. Geller?”
His sharp gaze never wavers as I rest my hand on the document, my fingers brushing its edge. “Everything you need to know is there,” he says smoothly, though there’s an edge in his voice. “Every questionable transaction, every irregularity, every signature—or lack thereof.”
I lift an eyebrow, my tone cold. “You came here to show me an accounting error?”
Geller places both hands on my desk, leaning in just enough to test the boundary between confidence and arrogance. “I came here to tell you someone’s been siphoning funds from your club, Luna Royale, into untraceable offshore accounts, and those accounts have been traced to illegal operations.”
Weird.
Not because he’s fabricating information—Royale and others are fronts for the main activities that fund the Cross family’s existence—but his knowledge of it.
While our activities are not that hush hush, we’ve done an excellent job of keeping it from the eyes of the law. Mainly because we have eyes and ears everywhere, so a potential case is handled before it breathes.
Why is Geller here?
I flip the first page of the document, keeping my face neutral. “And you think barging in here with accusations is how you get cooperation?”
He straightens, adjusting his tie with deliberate care, as though he has all the time in the world.
“I think this is how I get your attention,” he says, his words pointed. “Someone in your house is playing games, Mr. Cross. If I were you, I’d want to find out who before the spotlight stays fixed on you.”
I push the document back across the desk, letting the silence stretch. “If you came here expecting me to panic, you’ve wasted your time.”
“I didn’t expect panic,” he replies smoothly, tucking the folder back into his briefcase. “I expected you to understand the gravity of your situation. Work with us, or…” He shrugs, leaving the rest unsaid but implied.
I lean back in my chair, steepling my fingers as I hold his gaze. “You’re making a mistake,” I say, my voice a low warning. “If you think you can walk into my office and corner me, you clearly don’t know who you’re dealing with. ”
Besides, his offer is bogus, and only a stupid person would buy into it. It’s public knowledge that I control Cross Holdings, and a dive into our establishments will show that they belong to us, just as he’s made the connection.
Anyone would assume that since I control the company, I also authorize the operations.
Joe Geller is not trying to get me to turn. He wants me to name a scapegoat in hopes that when the scapegoat realizes I’ve fingered them, they’ll provide enough proof to nail me.
Absurd.
“Why don’t you come back when you have something concrete?” I say, calling out his bullshit. My voice hardens, devoid of any warmth, as I point to the door. “I believe that’s the way out. It’ll be in your best interest to use it.”
Geller doesn’t flinch at my tone. I didn’t expect him to, though. I’ve dealt with men like him before. They think they have something—that their bluff will work.
When it doesn’t, they either abscond or return begging. The problem is, it doesn’t matter what they choose at that point. Coming after me comes with consequences, and Joe Geller is about to see how grievous they are.
He clears his throat when I remain silent and stands up, grabbing his briefcase. “I came to issue a friendly warning, Mr. Cross. You’ve refused, and we have no other option but to go after everything your family owns.”
A muscle twitches in my jaw. My Adam apple bobs with restrained anger. “The law has no claim to my businesses. If you try to close them down, I’ll come after you,” I threaten in a low tone, leaning forward so he sees it in my eyes. “With everything I own.”
Geller shrugs. “We’ll see, Mr. Cross. We’ll see. ”
Then he marches out of my office with his briefcase swinging, leaving the door open. Perpetual hurries to the door and closes it with an apologetic look while I grit my teeth and struggle not to slam my fist on my desk.
He’s bluffing.
He’s bluffing.
I couldn’t make him crack, but there’s no way the prosecutor’s office has enough evidence to shut down my businesses.
Right?
Staring at the document like my glare would burn holes through it, my anger builds until steaming from my ears. I snatch it from the desk and fling it across my office, exhaling heavily.
Anthony , I think as I leave my desk and pace the space, wondering where they would’ve gotten intel from. He’s the only person who would let down his guard.
“Natalie?” I muse aloud.
The event planner, party chef, and now personal chef. Anthony took to her quickly—which he does with almost everybody—but having her around almost every day means more opportunities to say the wrong thing.
I have to see him. I said I wasn’t going to return to the apartment after the last time, and my reaction to her almost taking a fall, but I have to.
Before that—
I reach for my phone and dial a number, asking the person at the other end to come to my office as soon as possible.
Alex walks into my office thirty minutes later, his baseball cap drawn over his head and a mysterious atmosphere around him. I shake my head as he closes the door with deliberate and painstaking slowness .
“That’s how you get noticed, Alex. You’re supposed to be a private investigator, for goodness sake. Do I have to hire someone else?”
He flings the cap off his head and greets me with a grin. Much like Anthony, Alex likes to party. The only difference is that Alex takes on various personalities to get the job done, and he always gets it done.
We’ve also been friends since college as he took over the job from his father, who took over from his father.
“Ethan,” he says as he sits. “You never call me impromptu like that. What’s the job?”
I tell him, and he whistles when I’m done, shaking his head. “That’s crazy. I used to think the Cross family… you,” he gestures at me, “were untouchable. It sounds like an inside job. You might have a mole.”
I came to the same conclusion after thinking about Anthony getting too friendly and spilling secrets.
“Can you find out if someone is talking to the prosecution’s office? And there’s someone else I need you to look into.”
“Who?” he asks, bracing his hands on the armrests of the chair.
Pulling out a notepad and pen, I jot down the name “Natalie Monroe” and hand it over.
He chuckles, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “Boss, there’s probably a thousand Natalie Monroes in this city. Unless you want me digging through every single one, I’m gonna need something more specific—like a picture.”
A picture?
I hadn’t thought to take one of her, not that I’d ever admit it. But if Alex asked me to describe her? I could do it effortlessly. Every detail. The way her hair looks when she’s rushing around, handling a dozen different things at once. The way it falls in soft waves when she lets herself breathe .
And her scent—that soft, floral fragrance that lingers in the air, faint but unforgettable.
I could describe Natalie in her dress, in the cherry red blouse, and the way the jeans clung to her curves. I’d tell him how soft her skin feels and every note of her whimpers before they hit the needy moans that make me so hard I forget how to breathe.
“Ethan?” He says my name, and I snap out of my thoughts.
I shake my head, scratching my hair. “I don’t have a picture.”
He clicks his tongue. “Okay. Do you have anything else? Like where she works? Who does she work for? I’m not going to ask why you want me looking into her, but I’ll need more than just the name.”
Shit.
I can’t tell him she’s working for Anthony.
As tight-lipped as Alex has been the years he’s been working for me, I don’t want anything to get to my cousin. He’s already called me out for being on edge… and I need to find out what I need without altering Natalie.
“Why don’t I get back to you on that?” I suggest. “You can look into the other things for now.”
Alex shrugs. “Okay. I’ll let you know what I find.”
***
Instead of going home, I head to Alex’s apartment—technically mine—to talk to him about the prosecutor’s visit. If he did something, I need to know early enough to employ whatever corrective measures are required .
As my driver pulls up outside the apartment, my phone rings. It’s from the manager at Club Royale, the one under suspicion of using the products being sold and distributed.
“Boss!” he says, sounding frantic. “There’s a raid happening. I don’t know—” he breathes heavily, and I can hear his footsteps as he runs down the stairs, “but they showed up unannounced.”
What the hell?
“Is it secure?” I ask, keeping my words vague in case he’s foolish enough to have someone bug his phone.
“No,” he responds after a pause. “Anthony stopped by the other day and cleared everything out. Said he couldn’t trust me anymore, not after… well…”
He trails off, but I don’t need him to finish. I already know what happened. Anthony must’ve roughed him up pretty bad and moved the goods somewhere safer.
Good.
Yeah, I know how that sounds, but it is what it is.
“Make sure nothing raises suspicion,” I say firmly. “If there’s even a hint of trouble, handle it before they catch wind of anything. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, boss.”
I end the call because I’m getting a call from another club. It’s pretty much the same thing, but they moved the goods when the cops showed up at the door. Then another—they’d sold the last batch an hour before.
And another, where they found enough to arrest the employees around.
“Fuck,” I run my fingers through my hair. I don’t know how they got the warrants, but I’m certain they’ll all regret that move. I have enough lawyers to get the employees out, but someone has to take the blame.
Someone who can keep their mouth shut for a couple of months.
As I sit debating my next move, the doors of the apartment building open, and a woman steps out. She’s wearing a white maxi skirt and a black crop top with white sleeves. Her hair is swept into a half bun, and gold hoop earrings sway gently as she moves, catching the light—and my attention.
Natalie.
She doesn’t notice my car parked a short distance away. Her focus is elsewhere, scanning the street as she raises her hand to flag down a cab. Oblivious, somewhat, and entirely distracting.
My phone slips down on the back seat unnoticed as I stare at her. Something in her phone catches her attention, and it must’ve been funny because she laughs and shakes her head from side to side.
Her smile does something to me because, for a moment, I forget what I was angry at. The Club Royale and the prosecutor’s office are distant memories, almost like they never happened.
My brain and thoughts are on how the single smile brightens her face… and the man standing next to her notices it, causing him to smile, too.
What is it about her?
Why does she leave me speechless, flustered, and craving to know more?
I’ve never cared about situations that didn’t involve me—until Natalie. She makes my heart stutter and sends a rush of dopamine coursing through my veins. As she waves down a cab, her smile stays imprinted in my mind, refusing to fade even after she gets in and the car begins to pull away .
I watch until the cab disappears into the flow of traffic. The moment is fleeting, yet it lingers, leaving me unsettled. My focus, my control, is gone, hijacked by her without her even knowing.
I snap back to reality, reaching for my phone, but I can’t summon the frustration I should feel for being so easily distracted.
“I need to look into her,” I mutter under my breath. If she’s a spy, she’s a damn good one. And if she’s not… then I have an entirely different problem.