Chapter 1 #3
But… If you removed the cheap glamor, tidy him up a bit, he could be quite handsome.
He has a six-foot-two framework, smooth russet skin, a chiseled jawline that, with a trim, his beard would look flawless.
He has hazel, gold flecks eyes that would make any girl melt faster than ice cream.
He could have been a man carved from the gods with those strong broad shoulders, built like the finest werewolf I’ve ever seen.
But no, he’s a forty two year old man child, who eats baby food and likes to be burped by his momma.
It’s always the young ones that disappoint me the most. I’ll pass on raising a man, especially a shifter. They are absolutely the worst.
“That looked brutal,” a deep timbre voice says behind me.
I know who it is without turning around to see.
Chuckling, I say, “did you witness the horror?”
“It was cinematic,” Chef Mikhail Melone laughs and takes Anthony’s now vacant seat.
Mikhail and I are childhood best friends.
He and his sister were the only kids I could play with growing up.
I didn’t mind it though. I loved running with his pack, not once did I feel different with the werewolves.
Plus, their security was just as tight as my family’s.
When you’re the youngest in the Saint-Claire tribe, safety is priority.
Which means our circles are extremely small.
Mikhail’s family lived in a compound a city over from us.
With his dad being the east coast Wolf King, our family ran in the same circles.
Because of that, his dad is my mom’s third in command in the Syndicate— on paper, anyway.
Their appearance of an alliance makes my mom’s network stronger, when in reality, they’ve been close friends for centuries.
And at one time even betrothed to one another.
Their love story never had room to flourish because they’re the same person. Ruthless, no nonsense, get to the point type of people. They both needed someone softer to smooth out their rough edges.
As far as the Syndicate goes, my mom is the Chairman, and my dad is the Director— her second in command.
My sister Raevyn is her unofficial third in command.
Mom kept her off the record to be her executioner.
The underworld calls her Nyx, goddess of the night.
She loathes it, though she leans into it considering she does the majority of her work at night.
If you ask me, the Grim Reaper suits her better since what she leaves behind is never pretty.
Then there’s Roman— my mom’s enforcer and my personal babysitter. The underworld calls him Ghost because one moment, he’s here and the next he’s not. Just like a ghost. Unfortunately for me, he’s ever so present in my life.
Lucky me, I don’t have a real designated role in the family business.
I’m loosely an intelligence officer at best, a burden at worst. I don’t have the natural skillset to hold a seat in the Syndicate.
Which is how I became an entertainer. There are so many people in this industry that carry the air of audacity with loose lips that it makes it easy for me to hear their secrets.
“The first red flag was when he ordered soda,” I say around the rim of my wine glass.
“Oh, I thought the red flag was when he didn’t pull your seat out for you,” he says sitting back in his seat.
Well, there’s that too.
Tilting my glass to him, I tell him, “actually the red flag was when the Monroes requested the marriage to get them out of debt with the Italian mafia to save Mr. Ronnie Monroe’s political career.”
We shake our heads in unison. Ronnie wrote a check his mouth couldn’t cash and thought his son could be used as currency.
“Ronnie tried to request my sister’s hand in marriage to his oldest son, Braxton. Addison said no.”
Good for her. Braxton is the flashy brother. Most likely the main reason for the impending bankruptcy file.
Leaning forward towards Mikhail with my elbows on the table, I say, “I only entertained this because I needed a distraction. With my last tour coming up, I needed to take away the anxiety. You know?”
He snorts.
“I’m retiring and I’m going through the motions of what that really means.
I can only escape the aging scandal for so long.
I’m supposed to look like I’m in my late thirties, but I look like I’m in my twenties.
I have to get out of the entertainment business while I’m still at the top and unassuming. ”
“And getting married solves that how?” He furrows his brows at me and cuffs his clean-shaven, warm-honey toned face.
He looks so good in his white chef coat. He dreamt of having his own restaurant since we were eighteen. Now look at him. He has fourteen restaurants worldwide, including this one in Los Angeles, and is well-known across the country. I’m so proud of him. He really did it.
I shrug. “If the world thinks that I settled down and started a family, me being absent wouldn’t raise any eyebrows or attention on me.”
“What are you going to do? This was like your thirtieth fiancée—”
“Forty-fifth fiancée,” I correct.
“Forty-fifth. You might as well wrap this fruitless campaign up and just be a cat lady.”
“Ugh. I rather eat pennies than be a cat lady.”
“Well, you did experience Pica when we were kids, so I believe you.”
“Just give me my check,” I sigh.
Winking with a devious grin that shows his deep dimples, he says, “it’s on the house.” We both stand and he comes over to hug and place a short kiss on my forehead. “Go home, don’t drink another glass of wine and get some sleep. You had a rough night.”
Ain’t that the truth.
When I get home, I kick off my heels, strip out of my dress and curl under my covers and watch trash TV. And against Mikhail’s instruction, I have two glasses of my favorite Celeste Devoe red wine.