WARNING: This story contains violence and strong language. Reader discretion is advised.

"Listen, Paul," I pause, lowering my phone and looking across my desk toward Mr and Mrs Bianchi. Mr Bianchi looks like he's on the verge of pulling the remainder of his over combed hair out. "I won't say it again, my client's final offer is 4.6 million. No more, no less."

"My client wants five Adele. You're wasting my time." Paul is as stern as always. "If they don't want to spend the money, tell them to buy another house."

"I don't want another house. I want that house!" Mr Bianchi whisper-yells, not one for games. "Offer five! Subito!"

Subito—at once in Italian. I've heard that many times in the months we've been working together. He's an incredibly impatient man.

Dante Bianchi is one of the most influential developers in the state, known for playing on both sides of the law. When I started working with him, I was warned by other agents in town to steer clear. He's feared by many; his short temper can be dangerous.

Raising my hand, I nod firmly, calming Mr Bianchi down before his rounded face grows any redder.

A thick silence grows in the room. Mrs Bianchi pulls at her Prada handbag while her husband stares at me, barely blinking.

I take a deep breath, leaving Paul waiting just long enough. "Like I said, my client's final offer is 4.6 million."

"Perché mi sono fidato di questa bambina?" Mr Bianchi exclaims, standing from his seat aggressively.

Mr Bianchi may not know why he's trusting me, but I do.

"Paul, we both know this property is stale," I say, doubling down. "Nobody wants to take on the renovation work. You're lucky my clients see its potential, but the kitchen alone will be over a hundred thousand to fix. This is a cash offer, and it's more than your clients are going to see anytime soon."

Paul laughs, outraged. "Goodbye Adele. It's been a pleasure as always," he says before hanging up.

I place the phone down, maintaining eye contact with a fuming Mr Bianchi. He looks like he's ready to spit every Italian curse word he knows, eyes narrowed in a perfectly intimidating glare.

"Just wait," I assure him.

"Are you crazy? You think we don't have the money? I own half of New York and that beach house was my wife's anniversary present," he barks, gesturing to Mrs Bianchi, who frankly couldn't seem to care less. She just looks scared of her outrageous husband.

"Trust me, he'll call back before the day is over. He knows it's a good offer; so do his clients," I state, straightening my shoulders.

Taking a firm approach could be a mistake. Judging by the way the corner of Mr Bianchi's mouth lifts in a snarl as he leans across my desk, he's not used to dealing with someone like me.

Someone who doesn't cower in his presence.

"For the sake of your career, I hope that you're right, girl," he sneers, pointing a threatening finger at me. "Angela, let's go."

His wife scurries out of my office behind him, shooting me a sympathetic look.

"Christ, I can't wait to never see that man's face again," my assistant Art grumbles. He stands in the doorway, holding a stack of paperwork and analysing me like he always does. "You look like you need a drink. It didn't go well, I take it?"

"It went how I thought it would. Mr Bianchi doesn't trust me... at all." I half smile, more out of desperation than anything else. I gesture to the stack of documents. "Is all that for me?"

He nods, placing a hand on his hip. "Well, he should trust you. You're not the fifth biggest agent in New York for nothing."

"Seventh," I mutter, though I'm aware he knows this.

He dumps the paperwork down in front of me. "You really think Paul's clients will budge on the price? It's a big gamble."

"Gambling is all part of the fun."

"Well, for the sake of your life, I hope you're right. That man is terrifying," Art murmurs. He

checks the clock on my desk. It's just after five. "I'm going home before my last brain cell dies. Keep me posted if you hear back from Paul."

"Will do," I say, exhaling.

The weight of this deal sits heavy on my shoulders. Mr Bianchi is connected to all the big buyers in the city. If I want to be the top agent in New York, I need this.

And I'm not sure I'm ready to face Mr Bianchi's wrath if it backfires.

***

New York's beautiful weather greets me as I walk towards my car half an hour later. I love this time of year—almost summer—when it's still light out after work.

This evening will consist of my usual Friday night ritual. A cheeseburger combo, sweatpants, and Netflix. Ideal.

I'm halfway home when my phone rings. Paul's name flashes on the screen in front of me.

"Paul, what a pleasant surprise."

"Don't be a smartass." His answer makes me smile; I can't help it. Paul and I have worked together many times since I first started in real estate eight years ago.

He was my mentor. The one who believed in the unsure 18-year-old that walked through his office door with nothing more than a high school diploma. Paul is like the uncle I never had. A very grumpy uncle who is all bark and no bite. He's a real softie once you get to know him.

"We have a problem," he mutters. I can practically see him pouring a whiskey.

"Why is that?"

"Have you heard of the DeLuca's?"

"No. Should I know who they are?" I ask, intrigued.

"They're new in town, but they've already bought up a large percentage of real estate in New York," he explains. "Most of my clients can't get a look in with them snatching up everything that comes on the market."

"I'm surprised I haven't heard of them," I admit.

"It's all very secretive. They like to keep a low profile. Nobody has actually met them. We all deal with their agent, and he never reveals a thing."

"Strange," I mumble distantly. Why have they only come on my radar now? "What's all this got to do with me?"

"Somehow, they've convinced my clients to sell the beach house to them for next to nothing," Paul mutters. "If this deal goes through, you lose the sale, and my commission is practically nothing by the time I pay all the marketing fees."

"What do you mean, convinced them? Why would they sell it for next to nothing? That makes no sense," I say, shuddering at the thought of failing Mr Bianchi.

"I don't know how. They won't tell me shit. All I know is they're meeting with DeLuca's agent to sign the paperwork. Tonight."

"Well, I'll be there," I answer, kissing my relaxed Friday night goodbye.

"You know that new club downtown that's just opened?"

"No."

I can practically feel Paul roll his eyes. "Of course you don't. It's not like you go out," he muses. "It's on the main street. The DeLuca's own it. Be there at six."

He hangs up before I can say anything else.

It's almost five now, so I don't bother going home. Instead, I drive straight downtown and park, pulling my MacBook over from the backseat.

I need this deal. There's no way I can let someone else take this house. Mr Bianchi will kill my career, I'm certain of it. Eight years of climbing to the top will mean nothing if I don't play my cards right.

There must be something strange going on for Paul's clients to take DeLuca's deal. They're as money hungry as rich New Yorkers can get.

I press down on Art's number and wait for it to ring.

"Are you obsessed with me or something?" he asks. "We've only been apart half an hour."

"I need your help with something," I say. "Paul's clients are going to sign with someone else for less money."

"What? Why?" he gasps. "Want me to come down there? I can be charming when I want to be."

"That's alright, but I do need to ask a favour... I need an exclusive pass to your parents' vineyard, wine tour and all."

"Their vineyard is the most exclusive in the state. They don't let anyone there. You were an exception because they like you more than me," Art answers breathlessly. "You think this will help you close the deal because Paul's clients are alcoholics?"

I roll my eyes. "Paul's clients are passionate about wine, yes. And your parents' vineyard is world renowned. I need something to bring to the table. Art, please."

It's silent for a moment.

"Fine, but only because I'm the greatest assistant who ever lived."

"Yeah, yeah," I muse. "I'll keep you posted."

"Close this fucking deal, Adele Buchanan. I believe in you."

We end the call, and with nothing more than some wine leverage and false confidence, I walk towards the club. Since it's only six at night, it's closed, but there's still a terrifyingly tall bouncer standing at the door in an all-black suit.

"Name," he barks. My gaze falls to the outline of a gun in his jacket pocket.

What the hell has Paul gotten himself into?

"Adele Buchanan." I stand my ground, refusing to flinch under his assessing stare.

The bouncer opens the door, and I take in the exclusive nightclub. I haven't been to many before, but this is much nicer than I imagined. The floor is sleek marble, leading to a stage in the centre of the room that's currently empty.

The club is eerily quiet without people to fill it. The only staff I see are bodyguards lining the walls, each with a gun holstered to their belts.

I take a weary step forward, surrounded by the smell of expensive leather and faded perfume.

Paul walks towards me, tugging at the collar of his suit shirt. "Adele, thank God."

"Remind me again why are we in a nightclub?" I ask.

"Who the fuck knows. These people only do business on their territory."

Paul straightens his tie as his clients waltz in. James and Celeste Montgomery, two of the hardest people to read.

"Nice to see you both. You remember Adele?" Paul introduces us. I shake both their hands.

"We didn't expect to see you here," James comments, looking between us.

"Yes, well, Adele is a very invested realtor. She wants the chance to present her clients' offer in person," Paul explains. I watch him, frowning. It's unlike him to be so on edge. The man is usually made of steel.

"I don't know how you'll match a lifetime free membership at the Oaks Country Club, but it's brave of you to try. I like that." James pats my shoulder before walking past.

"They're taking a deal because of a bloody country club?" Paul whispers, jaw practically on the floor.

Realisation dawns on me. "They have plenty of money already. They want the exclusivity."

"How much money must they have to turn down millions for a country club? I'm rich, and I'd never do that shit."

"Yes, but you don't care about status. They do," I whisper, heading up the stairs.

This place is huge, and, if I'm honest, slightly unnerving. I've always been good at keeping my cool, but as I follow James and Celeste into a private room guarded by security, I find myself becoming uneasy.

"Adele, this is Jordan, our Country Club man," James introduces me to a man who doesn't look much older than I am.

He rises from behind the desk and steps forward to shake my hand firmly, seemingly assessing my every move. As he adjusts his suit jacket, gesturing for me to sit down, there's a nervousness to his demeanour that throws me a little.

"I have to say, I'm not sure why you're here. James and Celeste have already agreed to my clients deal," Jordan says. "The property is of the utmost importance to him."

Paul appears, eyeing the three security guards in the room slowly. "Adele is not one to take no for an answer."

His eyes meet mine, and we share the same expression.

Why on earth is there security here right now?

"If this deal is so important to your client, why isn't he here?" I tilt my head, watching Jordan's lip press into a hard line. "Surely he must know how much this house means to the Montgomery's. It's been their family home for almost thirty years." 

"She's done her research," James notes, sending a soft smile my direction. "Has your client done his, Jordan? It would have been nice to see him here."

Celeste and James turn to Jordan with expectant expressions.

"Mr DeLuca is a very private person. He prefers to remain anonymous in these kinds of transactions," Jordan says quickly. Too quickly.

James raises an unimpressed brow. For a split second, I see Jordan's confidence falter, and that's all the time I need.

"Look, it's Friday night. You've been trying to sell your home for a long time, so I'm going to get right to the point," I strike before Jordan can. "I know the idea of The Oaks is tempting, so I'm going to match Jordan's offer. But I'll sweeten the deal with an all-exclusive pass to Greystone Winery."

Never have I had to bid to make a deal like this before.

James' mouth falls open, but Jordan simply smirks.

"And how exactly would you get them a lifelong membership to The Oaks?" Jordan questions.

Paul eyes me, awaiting my answer.

"My father happens to be one of the founding members," I answer, smiling widely. "It won't be a problem."

If looks could kill, I would be dead at that moment.

"Greystone Winery? That's not open to the public," Celeste chimes in.

"My assistant is the owner's son."

"Of course he is," Jordan scoffs, like he can't believe what he's hearing.

"Adele, you have yourself a deal," James exclaims. He gestures to the papers in my hand.

"Pass me the contract."

"Hang on, James. Think about this," Jordan interrupts. "I'll get the cheque book out right now. Give me a number, any number, and it's yours."

Jordan's panicking. He's doing his best to hide it, but he grips his pen so tightly his knuckles whiten. Who on earth is he representing? Who would give him the authority to spend unlimited money? We're talking about millions of dollars.

"Any number, James. Thirty million?" Jordan pushes.

Paul almost falls off his chair. "Thirty million?"

"We already have money. What we don't have is exclusivity to Greystone Winery," Celeste says. It's what I expected her to say. What I banked on her saying.

"The deal is yours Adele," James confirms.

What on earth just happened?

"I need to speak to you." Jordan turns to me. "Now. Alone."

I smile at James and Celeste before standing, following Jordan's tall frame out the door.

"You need to stop this deal," he whispers, barely audible. "If you don't, we're both dead."

I do my best to keep a straight face. This isn't the first time I've been threatened by a powerful businessman, and I never back down.

"Jordan, unfortunately your client can't always get what they want. Our offer has been accepted. I'm sure they'll get over it."

Jordan shakes his head, looking around, eyes wide and alert.

"Adele," he breathes, "I'm not joking. You have no idea who these people are—"

"I think it's about time you both went back inside, don't you think?" a security guard asks, appearing from nowhere.

He stares us down, and I realise it's more of a demand than a question. A ripple of fear travels up my spine, and I wonder momentarily if I should head Jordan's warning. But I can't. My hands are tied.

I need this deal with Mr Bianchi.

"Sorry Jordan," I manage, then return inside.

***

We sign the contract quickly. As painful as Mr Bianchi has been, I can't wait to give him the news. I congratulate James and Celeste a final time, and then I'm released from the room by one of the security guards. 

"I can find my own way out," I reassure him, but he shakes his head.

"This way," he instructs gruffly, gesturing for me to follow.

Deciding not to risk my life by arguing, I follow him down the corridor and around a corner to the main flight of stairs. Paul catches up beside me.

"Isn't your old man a dentist? How is he a founding member of The Oaks?" he asks under his breath.

"I made that part up. I'll figure it out later," I whisper, grinning at the astonished look on his face. He stops in his tracks.

"Adele, you may look like an angel, but you play as dirty as the rest of us. I'm proud."

"I do my best Paul." I shake his hand. "It's been a pleasure, as always."

Paul nods, then heads back to the room.

As I turn and walk down the stairs, I can't help but feel like someone's watching. Glancing to the floor above, I lock eyes with Jordan. He's leaning against the railing beside a male I can't make out in the dim lighting.

All I see is the stranger's silhouette, so tall and muscular that he makes Jordan's athletic frame look small. He's terrifyingly broad, built like a Viking. The outline of his body alone is enough to make me want to flee this foreign place.

Who is that?

Shrugging off the unease that creeps over me, I try to make out what Jordan's saying, but it's impossible to tell.

I force myself to look away. I won the deal. That's all that matters.

I'm almost at my car—signed contract in hand—when I hear Jordan's voice.

"Adele," he calls, jogging up to me. "I meant what I said back there. You seem like a nice girl. You should get out of here while you still can. You don't want to get involved with these people."

"And who exactly are these people?"

"Mr DeLuca," he mutters, like it's a forbidden word. "You won't know true fear until you meet him."

I pity Jordan. He's clearly anxious, and whoever this DeLuca guy is, he's got a hold on him.

"Look Jordan, if your boss is mad, feel free to give him my card and I'll happily take the blame. Alright? Deals fall through all the time. Once Mr DeLuca calms down, he'll see that."

"Adele," Jordan breathes, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "I just spoke with him, and—"

Jordan can't finish his sentence. His face drains ghostly white as a Range Rover pulls up beside us. The back window rolls down. I don't need an introduction to know who the man is observing me behind blacked out sunglasses. The palpable power that radiates from him is enough.

It's the same power I felt when I left the club—the same man Jordan was talking to on the railing.

Mr DeLuca.

I don't know what I expected, but the man in front of me isn't it.

He's young, much younger than I'd imagined. Maybe thirty. I'm not often affected by the presence of men—I work with them every day, and whether they're attractive has never fazed me—but this man...

He's the most beautiful human I've ever seen.

His chiselled jawline and tan skin have no imperfections. There's a roughness about him—a hardness that is both terrifying and intriguing at the same time.

It's impossible not to stare. I swallow, forcing my expression to remain impassive.

"Adele Buchanan, the only person brave enough to ever steal a deal from me." His voice is smooth like velvet but so commanding at the same time. It sends chills down my spine, deep to my core.

Composing myself, I answer, "I would say won, not stole, Mr DeLuca."

Jordan looks like he might pass out any second, trembling as he watches our interaction.

Mr DeLuca's lips curve upwards in a threatening smirk. "Miss Buchanan, you'll be joining me for a meeting at Furnace tomorrow night. Seven sharp."

"That's a bold assumption. I'm afraid I already have plans," I lie through my teeth.

In a thick Italian accent, Mr DeLuca rasps, "Cancel them."

I almost have to hold my jaw shut to prevent it from hitting the ground. The nerve of this man is unbelievable.

But before I can snap back, he's gone. The Range Rover pulls away as the back window rolls up, leaving Jordan and I alone.

"You should run," Jordan whispers, leaning towards me. This time, I don't doubt he's telling the truth.

A cold chill settles around us.

"You've caught his attention and that," Jordan pauses, releasing an uneven breath. "That is a very dangerous thing."