I await Jordan's arrival at our first potential house early on Monday morning.

According to the—irritatingly limited—information I've received from Mr DeLuca's team about what he's looking for, this piece of property ticks all the boxes.

It's in the most desired location in The Hampton's, right on the beachfront. Houses like this one scarcely come on the market. The only reason I have access to it is thanks to a deal I closed last year with the owner's son.

He was so impressed with the price I got on his apartment that he said if I ever had a serious enough cash buyer, his parents might be open to selling.

It's been hard to find someone with almost sixty million in cash...until now.

Inhaling a sharp breath of sea air, I place my phone down on the patio railing and watch the waves roll up onto the sandy shore.

It's beautiful here. A much-needed escape from the hustle and bustle of New York city life.

"Are you fucking crazy?" Jordan's voice snaps me from my daydream.

He walks towards me in a crisp checked suit and just like that, the peace and tranquillity evaporate.

There's a lanky guy at his side who looks to be no older than seventeen or eighteen. His suit doesn't quite fit him properly; he's too skinny to fill it out.

"You completely ignored my advice and now here we are"—he gestures to the mansion we're standing in front of—"scouting houses for Mr DeLuca himself! What part of stay away was confusing to you?"

"He hasn't taken his Xanax today," the young male beside him tells me. His smile is so bright and infectious it catches me off guard.

"Adele Buchanan," I introduce, extending my hand towards him. "And you are?"

"Everyone calls me Happy," the teenager answers. Immediately, my Marvel-loving self thinks of Spiderman. This Happy is much nicer than that one.

"And what exactly do you do for Mr DeLuca?" I ask curiously.

"No, no questions. You do not ask any questions. Ever," Jordan answers before Happy can say anything. "Happy is my..." he trails off and looks over at the somewhat goofy teenager standing at his side. "My personal assistant."

"Of course he is." I nod, returning Happy's amused grin. "Would you boys like to see the house?"

"I will look over it quickly. You both wait here," Jordan answers before walking inside. Given how stressed out he is, I decide to leave him be before he blows a fuse.

"Is he always like this?"

"Jordan pretty much always has a stick up his ass." Happy nods, leaning back against the Rolls Royce they arrived in. "I'm not really his assistant, thank God."

"You don't say," I murmur. "And what is it that you do then, Happy?"

"I'm sort of in training—"

"Happy, don't talk to her," Jordan repeats, walking out of the house.

"Jordan, you really need to relax," I mutter, suddenly regretting my decision to work with this guy. He's going to make my life a misery at this rate.

"The house is good. Email the contract through," Jordan says, ignoring me. "Happy, let's go."

"You're going to buy the house just like that?" I turn around. "You were in there for thirty seconds."

"You are the expert, no?" Jordan asks. "If this is a bad investment, it's your head on the chopping block, not mine. I just do the paperwork."

"What kind of arrangement is this?" I question. "Who exactly are you people? This is a sixty-million-dollar house; your boss doesn't even want to see it first?"

I do my best to sound composed and unbothered, ignoring the disappointment that tugs at my chest.

Part of me was hoping that a mansion this extravagant would demand a walkthrough with Mr DeLuca. As much as I try to deny it, maybe I do want to see him.

"Mr DeLuca is a busy man, Adele. If you never see him again, you should thank your lucky stars for that," Jordan returns, clicking his fingers at Happy. "Let's go."

Happy offers me a sympathetic shrug. "Nice to meet you, Miss Buchanan."

"Happy." I smile tightly.

Jordan's words ring through in my mind as I watch them leave up the long driveway. I turn back to the ocean—the sky has gone cloudy, the surf choppier as it crashes inland.

When he said my head will be on the chopping block if I get this wrong, was he being figurative, or literal?

My heart pounds louder as I glance up at the mansion.

What kind of man has sixty million in cash for a property he isn't even going to view before purchasing? Where do you make that kind of money without being known about, or even heard of?

It isn't possible, unless...

The quiet alarm bell in the back of my mind begins to chime more loudly.

I need to talk to Art.

***

"So, they bought the house, just like that?" Art asks when I return to the office a few hours later.

I nod, sitting behind my desk. "Just like that."

"Damn. They're going to make us a lot of money for not a lot of work. What's the catch?"

I release a breath, leaning back in my chair. "The catch is, I think they might be criminals."

"Criminals? Tell me more." Art sits down eagerly. "What sort of criminals?"

Only he could find this information exciting.

"I'm not sure," I admit. "But so far, every single one of Mr DeLuca's guys has been armed. I tried to do my research, but there's nothing about him on the internet. Not a single thing and the man is buying up every inch of New York he can get his hands on. You can't make that much movement without being reported."

I tap my fingers against the desk, brow furrowing. "It doesn't make any sense. Where is all this money coming from? Why all the secrets? Why does he have bodyguards with him if nobody knows who he is? Why is Jordan so scared all the time?"

I lean forward. "Plus"—I don't know why I lower my voice—"they're all Italian."

"Ohhh." Art's expression changes to a deep frown. His voice is barely a whisper when he says, "So, you think we're dealing with the mafia?"

"That's my gut feel right now, yes," I answer honestly. "We need to be very careful."

I need to be very careful.

"Are we going to keep working with them then?" he asks. "Considering how dangerous they could be?"

"For now, it looks like the arrangement is only interacting with Jordan, and this kid he brings around with him. I'm not sure who he is, but neither of them are dangerous."

"You're certain about that? It's a big risk to take," Art comments. "Do we need to cut ties now before we get in too deep?"

I shake my head. "We tread cautiously, but no. For now, they're going to make us a lot of easy money. We sell them houses, nothing more, nothing less. And we only deal with Jordan or Happy. Nobody else."

I can see Art's mind going a hundred miles an hour, but he doesn't argue with me. "What was he like? Mr DeLuca?"

I shrug. "He was..."

Captivating.

"Guarded."

"I bet he liked you," Art murmurs, swirling the pen in his hand thoughtfully.

I raise an eyebrow. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, you're attractive, ambitious, successful... you don't take shit from anybody," he states. "Quite the catch for the possible Mafia boss himself. I bet he was quite taken aback. Probably why he picked you out in the first place."

"Jordan just made me out to sound more impressive than I really am," I explain, brushing the comment off. "Trust me, I think he was taken aback for all the wrong reasons. We practically bickered the entire evening and then he just left. It was odd."

Art seems to ponder this. He's very quiet, which is unusual for a man who usually can't stop talking.

"Don't worry, I can look after myself," I promise him. "It's sweet how much you secretly care about me, though."

I offer a smile, masking my unease. Worrying Art won't make my life any easier. He's a hypochondriac at the best of times.

"Yeah, yeah. I just know I couldn't find another boss who would tolerate me the way you do," he mutters, never one for affection. "So don't go doing anything reckless." He points a finger at me. "Or I will be very fucking mad at you."

I grin weakly as he leaves my office, sending a final warning look over his shoulder.

"I mean it," he scolds, before closing my door behind him.

Once I'm alone, my head is in my hands. I have to take three slow breaths to calm the quickening beat of my pulse.

My body is tense. I can feel each of my muscles slowly tightening the longer I sit.

Was this a mistake?

Dodgy businessmen I can deal with, but the mafia? One wrong move and my entire existence could be erased.

At that exact moment, just when I think I might be heading towards a panic attack, my phone rings.

Jordan, of course.

"Hello Jordan," I say. It comes out a little shaky. "Are you in a better mood now?"

"I left something at the house. Something important. You need to get me back in there." His voice is a whisper.

"You were only in there for a minute. How could you have left something behind?"

"Adele, could you not question me right now," Jordan pushes, sounding desperate. "I need to get back in that house."

"And I need to know why," I state firmly, covering my unease with all the bravery I can pull together. Still, my heart picks up pace.

"If I tell you why, I'll have to kill you." There is no humour in his voice. If anything, there is fear.

My fingers begin to tremble as I grip my phone, flustered.

I was right, and Jordan's behaviour confirms it. I'm not dealing with another dodgy businessman; I'm dealing with one of the most dangerous organisations in the world.

I glance at my laptop, steadying my breath before I speak. "I'll send someone over with the keys."

"No, no one else. Only you. Don't get anyone else involved. No cops. He'll know."

He'll know?

I feel a tremor of sheer terror run through me.

"It's The Hamptons. It'll take me a couple of hours to—" he hangs up before I can finish my sentence.

"Damnit," I mutter, reaching hesitantly for my car keys.

What the hell have I done?

***

There are butterflies in the pit of my stomach as I speed toward the house. After an hour and a half driving full throttle, I'm convinced that I'm doing the wrong thing getting involved with these people.

I am not a risk taker. I am the most reserved, overly cautious person I know.

But still, as I skid onto the long driveway, part of me is enjoying the thrill. It is a little fun to step out on the edge for a moment. To live life at a faster, dangerous pace for once.

Jordan is already waiting at the front door when I pull to a stop, pacing back and forth.

"Took you long enough," he says, snatching the keys from my hands. "Wait right here."

I don't say anything. I simply hand him the house keys and lean against the side of my car while I wait.

A few minutes pass, and nothing. No sign of Jordan. It's eerie quiet out here, save for the crashing of waves.

Deciding it's best not to poke the dragon, I try calling Jordan to tell him to hurry up... Nothing. No answer.

Huffing, I walk towards his Rolls Royce, peering into the window. His phone is on the passenger seat. Of course it is.

I wait a few more minutes before glancing at the time on my phone.

It's been too long.

"Jordan," I call, opening the front door. "My clients will be home any minute. What are you doing?"

Nothing. No answer.

"Jordan," I repeat, more firmly this time.

I keep my phone on me, stepping forward into the house.

"Jordan," I say once more. "This isn't funny. We need to leave now."

Turning the corner to the living room, I freeze, feeling the blood slowly drain from my body until there is nothing but a cold, burning feeling deep within my soul.

Jordan's lifeless body stares up at me from the floor.

I've never seen a dead person before.

I should scream, but I can't. My lungs contract too tightly. My body weakens, on the verge of collapsing right beneath me as I unlock my phone, tears blurring my vision.

I must get out of here. Then I'll call the police.

I step backwards, clutching my chest as it tightens. A numbness creeps over my mind, over my emotions.

Then everything goes dark.