Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Evelyn
My first day back at the firm felt like sleepwalking.
Deep inside, my body still ached. Every step sent a dull throb through me, a persistent reminder. Hey, remember what happened last night?
Yes. I remembered. Every goddamn second.
I was now the personal mistress of my ex-fiancé's father.
If any gossip rag got wind of this, Manhattan's elite would collectively orgasm for three months. Those bastards who'd always looked down on my father and me would have a field day.
I tried focusing on a cross-border acquisition contract—something I should've finished three days ago—but the black text warped before my eyes.
Victor consumed my thoughts. His penetrating gaze, those rough, massive hands, that low, gravelly voice in the darkness.
I slammed the folder shut.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I buried my face in my palms, pressing hard against my throbbing temples. The AC was cranked to eighteen degrees, but I was burning up.
Christ, I'd completely lost it. I was actually craving that mafia tyrant's brutal touch.
Had I developed real feelings for Victor Moretti?
The instant that thought surfaced, I violently shoved it away.
Impossible. I'd just been too long without a boyfriend. That was it.
Normal physiological response for an adult woman after prolonged abstinence. Purely biological. Hormonal. Nothing to do with Victor Moretti himself.
But that self-deception lasted maybe three seconds.
Truth was, once I'd confirmed he hadn't killed Richard—that he was an ally, not a mortal enemy—my frayed nerves had strangely settled.
Last night I'd actually slept through the night for the first time in weeks.
What could be more reassuring than sharing a common enemy with Victor?
But I still had one major problem.
My eyes landed on the calendar. Tonight at eight, circled in red. The arranged date Alexander had forced on me.
I had a headache. Alexander was stubborn as hell. Once he decided something, even my father couldn't change his mind.
But I refused to be a marriage bargaining chip, pawned off to some man whose full name I couldn't even remember, locked away in an Upper East Side penthouse as a decorative wife who only echoed her husband.
I took a deep breath and stuffed the unreadable document into my bag.
I needed to go to the family mansion and confront Alexander face-to-face. Since Victor had promised to protect me and the family, this political marriage scheme was now completely pointless.
But before I could leave, my office door flew open.
Alexander.
Perfect timing. Saved me from dragging my sore, aching legs halfway across Manhattan.
Thanks to Victor, I didn't want to take a single extra step.
Alexander stormed in and practically swatted away my secretary like she was a fly. The poor girl, only two months into the job, went pale and nearly tripped over the threshold as she fled with her folders.
I settled back behind my desk, frowning. "You scared my employee."
Alexander showed zero remorse. Instead, he charged forward and slammed both withered fists on my desk.
"What the hell have you gotten yourself into? Tell me the truth right now!"
His unprovoked rage ignited my own simmering anger.
Gotten into? What had I gotten into? Everything I'd done lately was for this crumbling family. My investigation had stalled because of Victor—I couldn't penetrate anything now. What could I possibly have gotten into?
Besides, I'd sacrificed too much for this family. No one had the right to barge into my territory and lecture me.
Not even my own grandfather.
"Get this straight." I shot up from my chair, palms flat on the desk, voice ice-cold. "This is my personal office. I don't welcome thugs who barge in without appointments and scream at me."
"Apparently, you're quite comfortable dealing with real thugs." Alexander's face turned iron-gray.
Before I could retort, he yanked something from his suit pocket.
A pure black square box. Dried, dark red stains marked the edges.
Alexander hurled it onto my desk.
The box tumbled twice across the smooth surface. The metal clasp popped open on the second roll. The lid sprang up.
A human finger rolled out.
The cut was surgically clean. Dark red blood had mostly congealed, but fresh blood still seeped out, staining the white velvet lining inside.
I'd never seen human tissue this close. The sudden gore made me stumble backward, my back slamming into my chair.
"This finger." Alexander trembled with rage, his voice shaking. "Belongs to Charlie. The man you were supposed to meet tonight. His father's been in the Senate for twenty years."
My brain short-circuited for a full second.
Charlie? The supposedly refined Harvard grad?
I swallowed my nausea and stared at Alexander in disbelief.
"Why the hell did you throw this poor bastard's finger on my desk?"
"That's what I should be asking you! What kind of psycho have you pissed off!" Alexander roared. "Some untraceable lunatic left this thing at our front gate. He even included a handwritten note!"
He ground his teeth, as if forcing out the words.
"'If you keep arranging dates for her, the next unlucky bastard will lose more than just a finger.'"
I stared at the bloodless digit, swallowing hard to suppress the violent urge to vomit.
Victor.
This was absolutely his work. One hundred percent.
Last night I'd asked for protection. Today, he'd severed Alexander's marriage fantasies with a bloody finger.
From now on, probably no elite family in New York would risk dismemberment to propose to me.
So that evening, instead of sitting in a three-Michelin-star restaurant in custom couture making small talk with Charlie Smith, I lay quietly in my new apartment's soft bed.
I curled under the covers, staring blankly at the white ceiling.
Insomnia again.
Everything had happened so fast lately. My nerves stayed perpetually wired. I couldn't close my eyes.
My phone's sudden ring startled me.
The screen glowed in the darkness. A video call request.
I stared at the number—no contact name—and instantly recognized it as the mysterious caller from outside the bar last night.
Victor.
I took a deep breath, steadied my racing heart, and instinctively reached up to smooth my messy hair. Then I realized how stupid that was.
I dropped my hand irritably, cursing my own ridiculousness.
God, Evelyn. You're not some lovesick teenager. What are you so nervous about? I steeled myself and pressed accept.
Victor's overwhelmingly intimidating face filled the screen.
Even through a phone, that face radiated suffocating aggression. His deep brow cast shadows in the front camera's light. His black shirt hung open two buttons as usual, revealing his solid collarbone. The background looked like some extremely dark room.
"I'm calling," his voice came through the speaker—low, lazy—"to personally confirm something. Whether my girl is behaving herself in her own bed tonight."
We'd signed our arrangement yesterday, and this control freak was already checking up on me. I didn't know whether to admire his efficiency or worry about my future—at this rate, he'd have surveillance cameras installed in a week, an electronic ankle monitor welded on in two.
"I'm in bed." I raised the phone, panning the camera to show half the bedroom layout, proving my compliance to this control freak. "As you can see. I'm not out with any nine-fingered men."
Victor's lips curved into a devastatingly charming smile.
"Good. I'm pleased with your obedience."
He lifted his glass and took a sip. Then he lowered his voice. That magnetic tone sent tingles through my eardrums.
"Now, are you ready to pay the generous fee for me ruining that boring date, Evelyn?"