Chapter One
Victoria
I step out of the car in front of Enterprises with my work bag in one hand and my entire future balanced somewhere in the middle of my gut.
That sounds dramatic.
Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.
The building rises above the street with its dark glass and clean lines, understated in the way really expensive things often are. No big, gaudy sign or brass nameplate shouting for attention. No enormous logo stamped across the entrance.
Just Conti Enterprises etched into black stone beside the revolving doors, the letters precise and neat.
Benjamin Harper stops beside me and adjusts the cuff of his jacket. “This is subtle.”
Ainsley Torres tilts her head back to study the height of the building. “Subtle like a man wearing a fifty-thousand-dollar watch under his sleeve.”
I agree, but I don’t say anything.
I need my mind in the right place.
Calm, professional, certain.
Not hungry. Not desperate.
Not like a woman who left a stable job at a well-established firm six months ago because she was tired of being used for work no one else wanted to do, then denied credit for results everyone else enjoyed.
Not like a woman who convinced two of her associates to leave their own stable jobs and jump into the unknown with her.
Not like a woman with apartment and office rent due and a client list that is respectable, but not yet strong enough to let me sleep easily.
Today, I am Victoria Murray, managing partner of Murray Legal Group.
I resist the urge to fuss with my briefcase.
It was a bit of a foolish purchase that I made after landing my first client.
My last one was falling apart, and this one was just calling to me.
It was money I definitely should’ve put back into the business, but I justified it by claiming I needed an elegant bag to take to meet with clients.
Right now, as I walk into the biggest meeting of my career, I rub the buttery leather straps between my fingers for luck.
The doorman opens the glass door before I reach it. He is older, broad through the shoulders, with silver at his temples and eyes that sweep over the three of us in one quiet pass.
“Ms. Murray?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Conti is expecting you.”
Nerves punch me in the gut at the words.
This isn’t just some HR person or administrator we’re meeting with.
This is Mario Conti himself, CEO of Conti Enterprises.
“Thank you,” I make myself say in a calm, professional manner.
The lobby is beautiful but a bit cold. Dark stone floors that mirror the walls. Low modern furniture arranged in conversation areas that no one is using. A long reception desk sits ahead of us, staffed by two women in black blazers who look elegant and efficient.
Behind them, on the wall, are the words “Conti Enterprises” in the same lettering as outside.
Simple. Severe.
Ainsley leans in slightly. “I expected more chrome.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Billionaire villain aesthetic.”
Benjamin coughs.
I do not look at either of them. I can’t afford to.
“Behave,” I say quietly.
“I am behaving,” Ainsley says.
“You called our potential client a villain in his own reception area.”
“Quietly.”
“Not better,” I whisper out of the corner of my mouth just as one of the women at reception looks up, and I smooth the expression away.
“Ms. Murray,” she says, rising. “Welcome to Conti Enterprises.”
“Thank you.”
“Mr. Mario Conti and Mr. Lorenzo Conti are ready for you upstairs. I’ll just need you and your associates to sign in.”
Her gaze moves to Benjamin and Ainsley.
“Benjamin Harper,” he says.
“Ainsley Torres.”
They sign the visitor log after me. We hand over identification, receive temporary badges, and are escorted toward the elevator by a man in a dark suit who does not introduce himself.
Security, then.
I saw the earpiece before he turned his head.
Benjamin sees it too. His eyes flick to mine for half a second, then away.
Ainsley says nothing, but I know she probably sees more than either of us.
She used to work in white-collar investigations before she moved into compliance. She’s used to working with people who have subtle security.
The elevator doors open without the man pressing a button.
Private access. Of course.
We step inside.
The doors close with a soft, expensive whisper.
For a moment, there is only the quiet hum of upward motion.
I know we’ve been evaluated since the moment we stepped into the building. Maybe even before that.
Based on my research and what I’ve felt since walking into the building, Mario Conti is extremely cautious and equally used to making people nervous before they ever shake his hand.
There are rumors, of course, about what kind of business he runs. Not the face of it, not Conti Enterprises. The other business. The kind that stays in the shadows.
And there’s the fact that there are some other well-known Contis who run some other sorts of business in Atlantic City.
Information I learned during my research, but no matter where I looked or what stones I turned, I was never able to find any sort of confirmation on whether there was any relation between the two.
But my gut tells me to exercise my own caution.
Actually, that’s a lie.
My gut is telling me to turn around and walk out. Right now.
My bank account is telling me to stay put.
Which is probably how a lot of bad decisions are made.
The elevator climbs higher.
Beside me, Benjamin clears his throat once. Not nervous exactly, but not comfortable either.
Ainsley watches the numbers above the doors like she’s memorizing the floor count.
No one speaks.
That might be for the best.
If one of them asks me whether I’m sure about this, I’ll have to lie.
We need this client. The fact of the matter is that, without Conti Enterprises, I’m not sure how much longer I can keep the doors open.
I take the moment to center myself and focus on what’s coming.
You can do this, Victoria. This is a client like any other.
Except I need this one for my company to survive.
No, don’t focus on that. You’ve done this a million times. You’ve got this.
The elevator slows.
My fingers tighten around the edge of my portfolio before I make them relax.
Thirty-second floor.
The doors open onto a quiet space.
There are no cubicles or ringing phones, no assistant rushing by with coffee and panic in her eyes. Just a wide corridor with art on the walls, offices behind frosted glass, and windows showing Chicago spread out beneath a pale afternoon sky.
The city looks almost orderly from this high up.
That is the lie of distance.
Our escort leads us down the hall, then stops outside a set of double doors. “Mr. Conti will see you now.”
There is something old-fashioned about the phrasing.
I almost expect him to open the door to a throne room.
Instead, it is a simple conference room.
A very expensive conference room, but still a conference room.
Long table. Leather chairs. Glass wall overlooking the city. A credenza with coffee, water, and cut fruit no one has touched. A screen at the far end of the room already displays the agenda I sent over yesterday.
And two men stand near the windows.
I know which one is Mario Conti before either introduces himself.
There are men who are handsome because the angles of their face line up just right. They have a good jaw, good hair, good tailoring, or enough money to make up for a lack of it.
Mario Conti is not that.
He is taller than I expected.
Not because his height wasn’t listed somewhere. It was. I know it was. I read every public detail I could find before walking into this building.
But facts on a screen don’t prepare me for the reality of him.
I become keenly aware of my own pulse.
Mario Conti stands near the windows with one hand in his pocket and his attention already on us. On me.
He is broad in the shoulders, solid in a way that makes the expensive cut of his dark suit seem less like style and more like necessity. White shirt open at the throat, no tie. A watch at his wrist that Benjamin’s probably already pricing in his head.
His hair is black with silver at the temples, neatly cut, thick enough that the gray looks intentional rather than aging him.
He isn’t beautiful.
That would be too simple.
Mario Conti is striking.
His face is strong in a way that does not need softness to be attractive.
Firm jaw, straight nose. His mouth is set in a line that suggests he does not smile unless he means it.
His skin is olive, his features unmistakably Italian, and his eyes are a mesmerizing blue, hypnotic in a way that I cannot read from across the room.
But I feel them.
That is the unnerving part.
Before he speaks, before he moves, before anyone says his name, I feel the weight of his attention settle on me.
Everything in me stills at the silent assessment because that’s what he does. He assesses. He’s not cold or warm, just neutral.
It’s a moment before his eyes leave me and move over Benjamin, then Ainsley.
All of this happens in a split second, but it feels as if time has slowed.
Beside him, the second man is a little younger, with the same dark coloring and a more openly polished appearance. His suit is navy. His expression is easier. Business-minded, if I had to guess. Less force at the surface, more calculation underneath.
He steps forward first.
“Ms. Murray.” His smile is professional, and there’s a faint accent in his words. “Lorenzo Conti.”
I shake his hand. “Mr. Conti. Thank you for having us.”
“Lorenzo, please. Otherwise, this meeting will become impossible very quickly.”
That earns him a small smile from Ainsley.
He clocks it and turns the charm her way. “And you must be Ms. Torres.”
“Ainsley is fine.”
“Benjamin Harper,” Benjamin says, extending his hand.
“Mr. Harper.”
Then Lorenzo turns slightly, and the atmosphere in the room changes almost palpably.
“My brother,” he says. “Mario Conti.”
Mario steps forward.
He does not hurry.
He’s not a man who needs to.
He crosses the room like a man with nothing to prove to anyone in it, and when he extends his hand, I meet him halfway.
His grip is firm. Warm. Brief.
“Ms. Murray.”