When Milo said Matteo would lead my security team, he wasn't kidding.

There are four guys outside my apartment at all times, two outside my office, and at least two more who follow me wherever I go. Those are just the ones I've been able to spot. Who knows how many more there are.

Matteo himself has been glued to my side for the past two days since Milo left. Anywhere I go, he follows. The moment I step foot outside my front door for a morning run, he's there. I don't know when the man sleeps.

It's a little scary, if I'm honest.

Art nicknamed him the Terminator. His terse, unemotional personality and 6'5ft body builder type makes it quite fitting. He only speaks to me when he needs to, and when he does, it's with as few words as possible.

Mostly, he just looms over me like a terrifying shadow. A great look for a real estate agent.

I've had to tell clients he's my bodyguard. I have no other choice. The man won't let me go anywhere alone, not even to appraise a house.

Some are understanding when I explain it's due to representing a well-known client. I think they believe I'm working for some A-list celebrity, and I let them believe it.

Revealing I'm really working for a criminal mastermind won't exactly be good for my brand.

I do my best to try and live as normally as possible with all of this going on. Though I can tell Matteo's overbearing presence has already scared off a couple of potential sellers and buyers. How could it not?

You want your realtor to be inviting, but with Matteo following me around like a bad smell and my face being fifty shades of purple, I am the opposite.

The weight of what I've gotten myself buried in is starting to sit heavily on my shoulders. Milo's business is important and beneficial to my career, but it can't start taking away from my other clients.

"Whatcha working on?" Art pops his head in my office, holding three trays of sushi. He glances at the chair outside my door where Matteo's been sitting like a statue for the past two days. "Where's the bodyguard?"

"Getting coffee."

Art seems relieved with my answer. He places one of the sushi trays on his seat and walks inside, taking the seat opposite me. "You haven't been yourself. I thought food might help cheer you up."

I thank him. I've been too anxious to eat properly since Renee.

"Milo's latest deal giving you trouble?" he asks.

I nod, swivelling my chair from left to right. "It makes no sense, Art."

"Can I take a look?"

"Please," I murmur, turning my computer screen towards him.

I force myself to eat my lunch as Art reads through the document line by line. His eyebrows crease together as he reads, concentration etched deeply on his features.

Matteo returns halfway through holding a mug of coffee that looks ridiculously small in his massive hand. He stares down at the sushi like it's a foreign object before looking back in my office.

"Arthur, you left your food in my seat."

Art turns his chair slightly, narrowing his eyes at the sound of his full name. "Remember, it's just Art, Matteo, and I bought that for you. Unseasoned chicken and rice can only get a man so far in life."

Matteo remains as expressionless as ever. "Thank you, Arthur," he says stoically, returning to his seat with rigid, perfectly upright posture.

"Dear God, does the man ever relax?" Art whispers, his focus back on the screen.

I don't answer. Instead, I stare at the black ink crawling down the back of Matteo's shirt. Beneath it, risen scar lines have faded into his tanned skin. The look of them makes me frown. I wonder what it is he does for Milo.

"Well," Art speaks up, pulling me from my thoughts. "What do you think?"

I sigh. "First, he buys an apartment for one tenth of what it's valued at. Now he wants to buy a tiny piece of commercial land for almost five times what it's worth. Why?"

Art chews on the end of his pen thoughtfully, watching me glare at the screen.

"So, he's not buying the business then? Just the land?"

"What do you mean?" I glance at him. "The contract doesn't mention anything about a business occupying the premises."

"It might not say it, but I'd recognise that address from anywhere. 9th Ave," he points out. "That's where that amazing Mexican place is. Encanto. Jamie and I go there every Monday night for cocktail hour."

"Really?" I frown, more puzzled now than I was before.

I've read through these pages for hours and never saw any mention of a business. That's odd for a property transaction. These terms should be laid out clearest of all.

"You think Milo could be keeping things from you again?" Art is hesitant with his question. From outside my office, I see Matteo turn his head slightly, observing.

"No, I don't," I answer loudly, though at the same time I nod at Art, who glances over his shoulder. Matteo seems satisfied with my answer.

I don't know what Milo's playing at. I don't understand the point of leaving business details off a legal contract, or why he wouldn't at least tell me about it in person. He said I'd have all of the information, yet once again I feel I am being left in the dark.

"It is Monday today," Art reminds me. "Fancy a cheeky cocktail later?"

***

Jamie and Art lead the way to Encanto after work, with my personal bodyguard and I tailing behind.

Matteo looks even bigger than usual squished in my 911 Carrera. He's so tall that he has to hunch down in his seat and even then, his head still touches the roof of my car.

"You didn't have to come tonight, you know," I remind him. "You could've enjoyed a night off. I don't think I need protection in a busy restaurant."

Matteo isn't looking at me. Instead, he's staring out the passenger window examining every passing detail like it could somehow be a threat.

"We should not do this," he replies stiffly, hardening his stare when I stop at a red light.

"Did Milo say something?" I ask, trying to sound casual.

"No," he responds matter-of-factly. "Don said nothing."

"Okay then, so you have nothing to worry about," I offer, releasing a small breath when he makes an unimpressed grunt sound in return.

If Milo isn't going to give me all the information, I will find it myself.

I haven't heard a word from him since he left. I don't know where that leaves us or why Matteo seems to think this is such a bad idea. It's just a restaurant, one Art goes to regularly, so what could I be missing?

More importantly, why would he want to pay so much for it?

Glancing at Matteo again, I notice the gold wedding band on his left finger more prominently thanks to the ambiance of the car lights. He's married. That's the one and only thing I know about the man trusted with my safety. A man following my every move.

"Matteo, could I ask you a question?"

He turns to me slowly, running his weary gaze over my curious expression.

"No," he answers gruffly, turning back to the window without hesitation.

"Well, alright then," I murmur, settling on more uncomfortable silence for the remainder of the drive.

I park behind Art when we arrive, stopping Matteo before he can climb from the car.

"Remember Jamie doesn't know who Milo really is. Art doesn't want him to freak out." Matteo says nothing, so I continue, "He thinks you're doing your real estate licence and I'm showing you the ropes."

I somewhat cringe at this last-minute plan. Matteo doesn't exactly look like another aspiring agent in his all-black combat boot attire, but it's not like we could explain what's going on. Jamie is a living saint; he'd go into cardiac arrest on the spot if he found out.

"I can be a real estate agent." Matteo nods and proceeds to get out of the car like he's on a secret service mission.

What could go wrong?

As we walk towards the restaurant, Art does a good job of keeping the conversation light between us. Matteo doesn't join in. Instead, he analyses all moving objects and glances at me every five seconds. 

The intensity of his demeanour makes me nervous when I shouldn't be. All we're doing is going for drinks, and judging by the line of people out the door, this is a popular spot.

Sure, the land would be valuable—it's in a busy part of downtown New York—but it's not worth the figure Milo has in the contract even if he is purchasing the business too.

We're seated at a round booth surprisingly fast and thankfully, the drinks come quickly.

The place is packed, and the upbeat tune of Mexican music fills my ears. It has a nice welcoming feel to it, immediately, I feel more relaxed. Even with Matteo sitting here, going out for drinks with Jamie and Art feels like a shred of normalcy returning. 

"So Matt," Jamie pipes up in his ever-chirpy voice. "You're thinking about getting into real estate? That's cool. You like working with people?"

Matteo, who couldn't look more uncomfortable or awkward if he tried, offers a stiff nod. There isn't an ounce of emotion on his face.

"Yes," he says, sounding like an automated AI. "I like people."

His expression remains blank, I can practically see Art wincing from the corner of my eye.

Jamie glances at me unsurely before returning a composed smile to Matteo. "That's great man," he says, with an ease only Jamie could have. "So, Adele, Art tells me you have a buyer putting an offer on this place?"

His attention diverts to me. I find myself sipping my margarita for liquid courage before I answer. "Yeah, it's a bit of a weird one."

Jamie hums, clearly intrigued, and Art sends me a sideways look.

I know he doesn't want Jamie involved, but I've hit a wall. I can't see anything dodgy or strange about this place and I'm stumped as to what's really going on.

Jamie has a Masters degree in both accounting and law. His brain is wired differently than mine and Art's. I could really use his input.

"Out of curiosity, why do you think a client would want to buy a place like this for top dollar? Are restaurants suddenly goldmines?"

Jamie resists the urge to laugh. "Little restaurants like this are generally the fastest way to go broke. That's why they're rebranded and on-sold every second year. There's too much competition and the margins are low. You have to really know what you're doing to be successful."

"So you wouldn't buy a restaurant if you were rich and had no real interest in the hospitality industry?" Art pipes up now, ignoring Matteo's warning look.

"I mean, no. Unless you were doing something dirty and wanted to hide your money," Jamie shrugs casually, reaching for the guacamole. He looks between Art and I, noticing our confused looks. "You know, like in Breaking Bad. Launder your money through a clean business with high cash flow."

I glance behind Art's shoulder and watch the bar. A young waitress is handed cash from a group of guys buying drinks, behind them a couple is doing the same.

The realisation hits me like a ton of bricks. Milo is having me offer whoever owns this place a ton of money so he can add it to his collection. He likely owns a variety of different bars and restaurants for that same reason. It explains the nightclub I first met him in too.

"Good thing we don't work with criminals," Jamie muses, totally unaware.

I suddenly feel I could be sick.

"Yeah," Art joins in, kicking me under the table. "Could you imagine?"

"Excuse me," I mutter, standing from the table. "I need to use the bathroom."

"So do I," Matteo stands abruptly and looks down at me with an expectant expression.

This man will not leave me alone for even a second. What does he think will happen between here and the far corner of a restaurant?

Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I walk past him with unsteady steps.

The first contract on the apartment didn't make any sense, but I'm still not sure if, or how, it was actually illegal. This is very different, because I'm now aware of what's going on. I know what I'm doing if I present this offer.

I would be assisting in money laundering. I'd be knowingly committing a crime.

The world spins around me as I step forward. I'm not a criminal. I'm not a criminal. I'm not—

I gasp when I collide into the firmness of a rock-hard chest. I stumble back, finding my footing.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention to where I was—" The words die on my lips when I look up, eyes locking on a familiar face. A face I've tried so hard to forget. The air is sucked from my lungs.

It can't be.

Not him. Not now.