Chapter 18 #2
Marco was the kind of lawyer who’d probably lied under oath before. The kind who had his hands in a hundred different deals at once and still managed to know what was happening in all of them. The kind who didn’t bother hiding what he was.
This guy? He had a clean record, a nice office, a handshake that was a little too firm, and the energy of a man who read The Art of War before bed.
“I specialize in corporate law,” he told me over drinks at some rooftop bar with a view of the entire city.
I swirled my martini. “So you sue people?”
“Essentially.” He laughed like I was funny. I wasn’t being funny. “But it’s a bit more nuanced than that.”
I took a sip. “Nuanced how?”
He launched into something about mergers, acquisitions, arbitration, whatever.
I stopped listening halfway through.
Instead, I studied him.
Not bad looking. Good suit. Good watch. The kind of guy who made sense on paper.
Max would probably like him, but he was boring. Safe. The kind of man who’d never take a risk, never bet on something unless he already knew how it ended.
He was the kind of man who’d propose in public because it made a good story. Who scheduled intimacy and penciled dates into his calendar like meetings he couldn’t afford to miss. The kind who sent flowers on anniversaries, but never spontaneously, because spontaneity wasn’t efficient.
I leaned my elbow against the table, my eyes glazing over as he kept talking. The view was nice at least—better than the conversation.
He stopped talking eventually, probably because he’d noticed I wasn’t even pretending to listen anymore. He smiled politely, clearing his throat like he wanted me to ask a follow-up question or show even the tiniest hint of interest.
“Sounds intense,” I said finally, though my tone made it obvious I hadn’t been paying attention.
His smile fell. “It can be. High stakes, long hours, but it pays off.”
“You enjoy it though?” I asked, half-heartedly giving him one more chance to become remotely interesting.
“I do,” he said, nodding seriously. “I thrive in high-pressure environments.”
I bet he did. I bet he thrived anywhere rules were laid out clearly, where the lines never blurred and there was always a handbook for handling anything remotely complicated.
Marco would’ve eaten this guy alive.
The thought of Marco made me glance away, annoyed with myself for even thinking about him. Marco wasn’t safe. He wasn’t predictable. And he sure as hell wasn’t someone I should be comparing my dates to.
But damn if I didn’t.
Marco was the kind of man who didn’t pretend to be good, because he didn’t care what anyone thought. I liked that about him, even though I didn’t want to.
The lawyer in front of me said something else, something about “work-life balance,” but I was officially done pretending. This wasn’t going anywhere.
When the check came, I didn’t bother with the usual polite arguments about splitting it. I let him pay, flashed a fake smile, and told him I’d had a lovely evening.
I left first, heels clicking sharply against the polished floors, leaving behind another man who wasn’t nearly interesting enough to keep me around.
Safe just wasn’t for me.
For the next couple of days, I did exactly what was expected of me. Not that I wanted to, of course, but I was already on thin ice with Max ever since he found out I’d left both dates.
Which was primarily the reason I’d decided to come to the event Rosalie’s mother was hosting. I was doing my job of showing up, and I made sure Max saw me playing my part.
The Clarke estate was obnoxious—the kind of old-money decadence people like Evelyn Clarke liked to flaunt, with its huge back yard, pruned hedges, and a pool that was almost never used but always pristine.
The event was the same as always. An excuse for high society to sip overpriced cocktails while throwing obscene amounts of money at art they’d never actually understand.
I wasn’t here for the art.
I had no interest in overpriced landscapes or abstract paintings intended to mean something.
No—I preferred the view from the pool chairs, where Rosalie and Daisy sat avoiding their mother, who was currently engaged in deep conversation with Margot.
I let my drink dangle between my fingers as I exhaled, glancing toward the crowd.
Rita was here.
Cillian’s sister.
She was talking to someone near the terrace, laughing too loudly at something that wasn’t funny. I already knew she’d find me before the night was over. She always did. Because she had nothing to her name now, and that made her bitter.
Which meant she wanted mine.
The inheritance Cillian had left behind.
I took a slow sip of my water, wondering how quickly I could disappear before she noticed me.
But luck had never been on my side, had it?
I could practically feel Rita’s radar locking onto me, and sure enough, seconds later, she was looking my way. Her red lips curled into a smile that said she’d spotted her favorite prey. Me. Of course. Great.
I turned my head just enough to pretend I hadn’t seen her, but it was already too late.
She reached my side, arms crossed, chin high. “Valentina,” she purred. My name on her lips always sounded like an accusation.
I forced a polite smile. “Rita.”
Her gaze drifted over my dress, my shoes, my glass of water. Judging. Always judging. Her eyes lingered briefly on my hand, searching, probably hoping Max’s attempts to marry me off had finally succeeded. Sorry to disappoint.
“Interesting to see you here,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “I didn’t think you had a taste for art.”
“I don’t. But I figured, what better place to run into friendly faces?”
“You always were good at pretending you belonged.”
She was baiting me. Trying to get under my skin so I’d slip up and say something she could twist and use against me. Rita wasn’t subtle, but then again, she didn’t need to be. She had nothing left to lose.
“I learned from the best,” I shot back. “How have you been? Still trying to squeeze every last dime out of the trust?”
“Careful, Valentina. Money doesn’t buy class.”
“And bitterness doesn’t buy happiness,” I countered sweetly.
Her eyes narrowed, but before she could deliver another barb, Rosalie’s mother appeared by my side.
“Valentina,” Evelyn greeted. “I was just telling Margot how lovely it is to see you here.”
Lovely. Sure.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said, the lie tasting bitter.
Margot, the woman who had a relentless ambition for pestering me. She was always trying to get me to go to her galas. I wasn’t sure why she thought I’d ever spend more than fifty bucks on a piece of art, let alone almost eighty thousand.
After half an hour of brooding conversation with them, I ventured toward the patio.
That’s when I saw him.
Marco.
He was sitting at one of the round tables with his back to the terrace.
His jacket was hanging on the back of his chair, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows.
His fingers held a glass of whiskey, but he never lifted it to his lips.
I wondered if he avoided alcohol for any particular reason.
Instead of heading toward Rosalie and Daisy like I normally would, I moved toward the table full of men.
Max was there, of course. Mikhail. Giovanni. A few of their men. And Marco.
I placed my hands on the back of his chair, the barest brush of my fingertips against the fabric of his collar.
I didn’t look at him. Instead I smiled at Max.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” Max asked smoothly, watching me like he already knew I wasn’t.
“Would you believe me if I said yes?”
He didn’t bother entertaining my sarcasm—he never really did. He always cut to the chase, which I could feel him about to get to.
“I’d like to introduce you to someone,” he said, motioning toward the man across from him. “This is Jonathan.”
Jonathan stood and reached his hand across the table for me to grab. He was attractive in a textbook way: freshly shaved beard and blond hair.
He wasn’t my type.
“Pleasure to meet you,” he said, his grip firm. He had the confidence of a man who’d never heard the word “no” in his life.
“Valentina.”
“I know,” he said.
My brows lifted slightly. “Oh, you’ve done your research.”
His lips curled. “It wasn’t hard.”
Marco shifted, his back brushing against my fingers.
Max continued, “Jonathan’s in law enforcement.”
“A cop?”
“FBI,” Jonathan corrected smoothly.
I clicked my tongue. “Ah. A Fed.” He was waiting for my reaction. “And are you crooked?”
He let out an uncomfortable laugh. “That’s quite the question.”
I shot him a smile and pressed, “It’s a yes or no.”
Jonathan glanced at Max then back at me. He wasn’t stupid—he knew better than to answer.
“Don’t worry,” I said lightly. “None of you ever know how to answer that one.”
Marco’s fingers tapped once against the table—the only sign he was listening.
Jonathan studied me. “Do you always ask the difficult questions?”
I smirked. “Do you always avoid answering them?”
Max sighed, cutting in before Jonathan could respond. “Valentina, be nice.”
I glanced at Max. “Speaking of nice, you think you could find me a ride home? This party is a bore.”
Max didn’t hesitate. No surprise there—he was probably eager to hand me off and make me someone else’s problem for the evening. He already had his phone out, thumb scrolling impatiently through his endless contacts list.
But then Marco stood abruptly, his chair scraping lightly against the marble. “I’ll take her.”
I blinked.
Well, that was unexpected. Suspiciously so.
Max arched a brow but didn’t argue. Of course he didn’t—he was probably thrilled to pawn me off to his overpriced lawyer for the evening. “All right, thanks.”
I probably should’ve said no. Definitely could’ve just let Max call me a car. But instead, because self-preservation wasn’t exactly my strongest suit, I met Marco’s gaze and decided to follow him. Another brilliant decision in my ongoing streak of questionable choices.