Three Mafia Bachelors and a Terrible Temptress (Three Guys and a Girl Volume 2, #16)
Chapter One
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Isabella
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"The Larsons are officially bankrupt."
"Oh, Mr. Pearson, that's just silly," I say, laughing although to me it sounds as if I'm flirting with our family lawyer. The man is sixty-four years old, has eleven grandchildren, and a very loving wife whom I've met on multiple occasions.
"The Larsons can never be bankrupt. At all," I add decisively, wondering where he got this idea.
"This isn't a joking matter, Ms. Larson," Bobby Pearson says, his lips pulled together as he admonishes me. My pulse picks up a beat in a very uncomfortable manner. Is he being serious?
No, of course he's not. How can we be bankrupt if I just bought a pair of custom-made designer heels—the diamond adornments to die for—a stallion, and a baby grand piano for my penthouse just last week?
I can't ride horses, but Brutus, a gleaming obsidian Arabian, was so magnificent I had to own him. And I plan to learn how to play the piano; there was an empty space in my new penthouse that needed filling, and a piano was it.
"Ms. Larson, allow me to explain the severity of the situation.
Your family's bank accounts are overdrawn.
There aren't any more assets to leverage.
What was sold doesn't even cover half of the outstanding debts accumulated.
And no, this didn't happen overnight. It was years in the making.
I've warned your father and uncles repeatedly about the Sansmith project, and here we are. "
I have no idea why this man is speaking to me, of all people, or what he is trying to convey, especially considering my lack of knowledge about my family's finances. I don't know anything about money except that it comes in the form of my trust fund, and I spend it. Then more appears.
Surely he knew how clueless I was about my family's monetary dealings before he called me in this morning. I mean, I had to forgo the gym for this meeting, and I told him as much.
I don't actually go to the gym. I get my coffee from a tiny, privately owned coffee shop right next to the gym, so I'm in the vicinity, and no one has argued with my logic before. Mostly because I say I'm going to the gym, and they believe me at their own peril.
I do know about the Sansmith project though, which has taken up all my father's time, and is supposed to be one of the largest, most luxurious resorts in the world when it's done. That's all I know.
Mr. Pearson—since he forfeited calling me Isabella like he always used to, I won't be calling him Uncle Bobby like I always did. Mr. Pearson slides a stack of documents across his desk toward me, so tall I can't see his face.
"Short of a miracle, the properties, vehicles, business holdings—everything—will be seized by the end of the week. Your father can't even afford my retainer, and that puts me in a very bad mood.
"In plain terms, you and your family are financially ruined beyond repair. Insolvent. In terms you might understand: ‘stone-ass broke,’" he concludes from behind the pile of paperwork, which could be written in hieroglyphics, for all I know.
"I said short of a miracle, but one does exist. You'll have to get married," he adds deadpan before he slaps a single sheet of paper onto the mound in front of me.
It takes me a while to register his words.
Moneyless. Miracle. Married. Me.
What?
I jump up from the chair and snatch the document on top of the mountain of files. The single sheet of paper is thick and heavy in my hand. My eyes are immediately drawn to the embossed crest in the corner, and a shiver runs through me.
Images of my grandmother flash before my eyes, and that same shiver at the sight of official stationery turns into a frosty chill and makes a popsicle out of me.
Evelyn Larson is a full-blown tyrant, five feet tall, disguised in a neat cardigan and a string of flawless pearls around her neck. She's seventy-nine years old, and yes, my grandmother is scary as hell.
I scan the ink on the page, hearing each word delivered in my her voice. In a nutshell, it's more like a letter of complaint. To me.
The girl is nearing her thirties. I'm twenty-four. She isn't getting any younger. Again, I'm twenty-four. Nickolas—her son—and that gold-digger wife of his—my mother—have let the girl run wild. She is probably no longer a virgin. Unthinkable. No man will want her.
Excuse me, I'm only still a virgin because... well, it's not from a lack of trying, but I'm klutzy, and that's a bad combination. My last prospect ended up in the ER with a broken nose after I mistakenly kicked him in the face because he tickled my feet before he was supposed to go downtown on me.
Never mind that, my grandmother's views are so archaic she deserves to be buried with the dinosaurs. I steel myself to continue reading.
That Nickolas could never be the head of the Larson mafia, too soft, too weak, no mind for business. Head in the clouds, and now he's gone and lost everything.
Oh yes, I forgot. My grandmother is still considered the matriarch of what was once the Larson mafia family.
My father brought us out of that era into the light of law-abiding citizens with pristine tax records.
My grandmother has never forgiven my father for dissolving a family organization in crime.
I continue reading.
So basically, because my father was stupid enough to terminate the Larsons as a formidable mafia family, then lost all the money his father left him, I'm the way out of this disaster. On marrying the head of the Onyx Empire, a trust worth a couple of billion dollars will be released to my father.
I have to get married to save my family.