I wake startled and disorientated, sitting up abruptly.

"Ow." I touch the pulsating pain radiating from the back of my head.

Where am I?

Sucking in a sharp, uneven breath, I glance around the extravagant room I find myself in. Maybe a hotel? Everything is white and immaculate, like the Four Seasons.

"What the hell," I murmur, pausing when a soft knock echoes from outside the door.

"Miss Buchanan? It's me, Happy," he calls. "May I come in?"

"Ah, sure," I answer, watching as he steps inside, assessing me with nervous eyes.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, offering a sympathetic smile. "You've been out for quite a while."

"Like crap," I admit, too afraid to stand in case I fall over. "How did I get here?"

I freeze, remembering my last conscious moments.

"Jordan!" I exclaim suddenly. "Happy, Jordan...he—"

"We know, we know," Happy assures me, stepping forward. "I'm the one who found you. I think you must've passed out after you saw his body. Hit your head pretty hard on the tiles when you went down."

"I passed out?" I grumble, placing my head in my hands.

"Yeah, I wasn't sure what to do... I brought you here so one of our doctors could check you over," he explains, catching my confused expression. "Oh, this is like"—he gestures to the room we're in—"kind of like... headquarters?"

"Mafia headquarters?" My voice is a squeak, and my vision becomes blurred, tears threatening to spill any moment.

I'm a witness to murder. A murder tied to the mafia.

I've watched enough crime shows to know what happens next in this scenario.

I look up at Happy, fear rising. I'm unable to move. Unable to do anything but gape at him with a wide-eyed expression.

Has he been sent in here to kill me? To beat me into submission and ensure I don't go to the police?

As if sensing my clear distress, Happy quickly backtracks.

"I won't hurt you," he stutters. "Nobody will. Really. Please don't cry."

I shake my head. I try to speak, but no words come out. I can't mutter a single sentence. I can barely remember my own name.

"It's okay, I promise. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to call this place. We can call it our office, if it makes you feel better," he offers, sitting on the far edge of the bed while keeping his distance. "Nobody knows what happened. Milo wants to see you when you feel up to it. He just wants to talk."

"Milo?" I ask.

"Mr DeLuca," he clarifies quickly.

Ah, so his name is Milo.

"Happy," I say, clearing my throat. "I need to go home, right now."

Happy nods gently, offering a sympathetic frown in my direction. "I understand, but I don't think it's a good idea."

"I don't care what you think," I whisper breathlessly. "Take me home, now."

Happy looks up at the ceiling, then down at the ground. He looks everywhere except at me. There's a genuine hurt in his eyes I don't like. It's as if he really does feel bad about this, but that can't be true.

"Happy," I repeat, trying to reason with him. My chest feels heavy as I try to push down the panic. "I can see you're just a good kid caught up in all of this. Please. Please take me home, and I can help us both."

"I understand why you're afraid." Happy's tone is gentle. He's still looking at the lush carpet rather than at me. "The thing is, we haven't been able to find evidence of anyone else being in the house... except for you."

"Oh." The realisation hits me like a ton of bricks. "You think I killed Jordan?"

"I don't think that," Happy defends. "Really, I don't. But to us you're a stranger, and on your first day working with us, Jordan gets murdered..." Happy trails off. "Don't worry, I'm sure we'll figure it out. Mil—Mr DeLuca just has to be thorough."

"So, to clarify, I can't freely choose to leave?" I question, standing with wobbly legs from the bed.

"I mean, I won't stop you, but it doesn't exactly help your case if you flee."

Breathing heavily, I find myself examining Happy. He seems so out of place here... So innocent and kind, like a human version of a Golden Retriever.

None of this makes any sense to me.

"Give me a minute to get ready, then," I tell him, grabbing my purse from the foot of the bed before walking towards the ridiculously huge ensuite.

I don't let him see it, but I can barely keep my balance. The minute I reach the bathroom sink I grip it tightly, assessing myself in the mirror.

"Gheez," I whisper. My pale reflection is hard to look at.

Attempting to compose myself, I run my hands through my now matted blonde hair, trying to make the soft curls I'd put through it this morning return. I reapply my red lipstick and dab the smudged mascara under my teary blue eyes away.

I will not appear weak in front of these men. I must keep myself together and seem completely in control. 

The truth of it is, now that I'm alone, all I can think about is Jordan.

My mind takes me right back to that moment, standing in the doorway of the living room, just staring at him. His eyes lifeless, his body limp. He would have only been dead for a few minutes, but already everything about him was... gone. How can life vanish so quickly? One minute he was here, talking to me, the next...

Maybe I could have saved him. If I was more observant, I could have prevented what happened. Whoever did this might have thought twice if an innocent bystander was with him.

How did they even get in the house?

I release a shaky breath, trying to rid the thoughts from my brain.

I straighten the white blouse I'm wearing with trembling fingers, tucking it back into my suit trousers. I must keep it together.

"Okay," I tell Happy when I reappear, pulling my heels back onto my bare feet. "Let's go."

Happy nods, gesturing for me to follow him out the door.

As I walk behind him, I straighten my shoulders, keeping my head high and my breath even.

This is a business meeting. I need to treat it as such and not think about the fact that my life is likely at stake here.

Happy guides me down the corridors. It's not at all what I expected. Everything is pristine and official. In a way, it reminds me of an illegal version of the Whitehouse.

This place is like a fortress, designed to protect its king.

And it's king is Milo DeLuca. A man I made a deal with having no idea who he really was or what he controlled.

Never could I have imagined it was this.

My heart pounds. The urge to turn around and run in the other direction is strong, but I don't see a clear exit. The further we walk, the more confused I get by the layout.

The artwork we walk past looks to be worth a fortune, as does the endless statues and chandeliers. We don't pass many people, but the few we do see are all well-dressed men who acknowledge Happy with a small nod and stare at me like they can't believe their eyes.

Strange.

Perhaps they don't get many women in this testosterone filled hell hole.

The only women I do see are two maids in crisp uniforms. Neither lift their heads when we walk past them.

My mind is practically spinning by the time we reach the top story of this...whatever this palace is called.

I'm in over my head. I know it, and Happy knows it.

Sure, I've worked for some very powerful men in my time climbing to the top, but never like this. I've never feared for my safety before until now.

"His office is the door right at the end," Happy informs me, as if the very large security guard standing outside doesn't give that away. "Good luck, Miss Buchanan."

"Thanks, Happy," I manage, walking forward with thinnest façade of confidence I can muster.

Don't let them see your weakness.

"Ah, it's you," I note, recognising the giant standing before me as one of the men with Mr DeLuca at the restaurant. He towers over me easily, even in heels. His body is built like an athlete on steroids.

"Name," he barks gruffly.

"Adele Buchanan," I say, though I'm well aware he already knows this.

The Hulk doesn't respond. He simply opens the door with the meanest side eye I've ever seen.

With the remainder of my courage dwindling, I walk inside Mr DeLuca's office. The moment I do, my eyes land on him.

He's facing away from me, staring out the window with his phone pressed to his ear.

He seems tense. Even from here I can see the rigid lines of muscle on his back barely moving. The black shirt he wears is rolled to his elbows, revealing a sleeve of dark tattoos up his left forearm I hadn't noticed before.

He says something in Italian. I wish I knew what. His threatening tone is enough to send shivers crawling up my spine.

Whilst he's distracted, I take the opportunity to gaze around his office. It's large—as to be expected—and filled with heavy, expensive wooden furniture. It feels very masculine, minimalist, and rich with history. A shelf behind his desk is lined with books and fills the entire wall.

"Miss Buchanan." His voice makes me jump. I hadn't noticed him move from the window to behind his desk. "Please, have a seat."

He gestures to the chair opposite his casually, an unreadable look on his face.

"Are you sure? You're not worried I might kill you in broad daylight?" I ask.

He raises a quizzical brow in my direction, gesturing once again to the chair.

"How's your head?" he asks, running his eyes over me slowly.

Play it cool Adele. Don't let him get to you.

"Fine," I lie, taking my seat. The corner of his mouth curls in an almost smile. Clearly, he doesn't believe me, nor does he pretend to act like he does.

Under his heated gaze I feel my internal body temperature rising, no matter how hard I try to stop it. Clearing my throat, I shift in my seat and try to look anywhere but his eyes.

Those stupid, mesmerising eyes.

My gaze wanders down to his wide shoulders, sculpted from hours in the gym and then down further again to his intricate tattoos. The veins beneath them are evident, running up the very defined muscle of his forearms.

I swallow tightly.

Nope, this is not helping. Back to his eyes.

"Miss Buchanan," he says, his tone clipped and cool. "I need you to recount exactly what happened."

I release a breath. Mr DeLuca watches me closely, his eyes intense and focused.

This is just another business meeting. You do these all the time.

Usually they're not about dead people, though. And I'm allowed to leave when they're over.

"I did not kill Jordan," I state slowly, refusing to flinch.

Again, his lips curl upwards, and I swear for a moment he looks genuinely amused, like he's enjoying an inside joke I'm not following.

"Yes, I figured as much," he muses in a warmer tone.

My shoulders relax slightly. Maybe my life is not on the line...yet, at least.

"Your day, Miss Buchanan," he pushes again. "In detail."

My gaze moves over him, his staunch figure sat so perfectly in his throne.

"I met Jordan and Happy at the house around maybe ten," I begin.

"How did Jordan seem?"

"Like he had a stick up his ass, which Happy said was normal. He didn't want me to go in the house with him, so I waited outside. He was only in there for a couple of minutes."

My explanation seems to puzzle him. At least, I believe that's the expression I'm getting as he watches me intently.

"And then?" DeLuca presses.

"I left and went back to the office for the afternoon. That's when Jordan called again and said he left something in the house. He didn't tell me what it was."

"How was he when you arrived the second time?"

"He was," I pause, doing my best to think back. "He was agitated. Definitely more agitated than earlier."

"And you didn't notice anything unusual? No other cars, anything out of the ordinary?" Mr DeLuca continues to press me. He contains it well, but judging from the way his jaw clenches, this is a problem for him. He's agitated.

"I don't think so, but I honestly wasn't paying much attention," I admit, looking away from his piercing gaze for a moment. The intensity in his eyes is like nothing I've experienced before. My stomach backflips.

It's silent for a moment, and once again the tension around us radiates strongly enough to make me shift in my seat.

"How did he die?" I finally ask the question that's been bugging me since I woke up.

"His throat was cut," Mr DeLuca answers without flinching, like he's talking about something as mundane as the weather. He's never seemed as dangerous as he does now. Like he's known death before—plenty of it.

"What?" My answer is barely audible.

I didn't see any blood when I went in the house, but maybe I passed out too quickly to notice.

"Who else knew he was going back to the house?" I snap my head up, meeting DeLuca's heated stare. "Was there anyone else but me who knew?"

He's quiet for a moment, tilting his head to one side before answering. "No, not that I've been told."

Shit.

This doesn't look good.

As if sensing my panic, Mr DeLuca speaks before I can think of anything to say to clear my name. "I know you didn't kill him, Adele. Relax."

If only it was that easy.

The way my name rolls off his tongue in a thick Italian accent is addictive for all the wrong reasons.

"Why are you so certain?" I tempt fate by asking.

He smirks, but the cocky expression doesn't meet his eyes.

"Call it a hunch," he offers, checking his watch. "Is there anything else you can tell me that might be helpful?"

I do my best to recall what happened this morning. When I arrived, there was only Jordan's car and mine. Nothing else seemed out of the ordinary. Though it's not like I keep an eye out for suspected murderers.

"I don't even know how they got in the house," I mutter distantly before panicking again. "What about my client's house? Jordan's body?"

"I do not leave a mess behind Miss Buchanan. It's been taken care of."

Mess? How can Jordan's death simply be a mess to him?

My head is spinning.

"I would really like to go home now," I admit without lifting my head from my hands.

"I'll take you," he says, matter of fact. He meets my confused gaze when I look up. "What is it?"

"I can just call an Uber," I answer. The idea of being trapped in a car with this man is too much for me right now. Surely, he has better things to do with his time than chauffeur me around.

He dismisses my idea. "It's fine. I have business in town."

I watch in desperation as he stands from his desk.

"Wait," I blurt out, stopping him. My heart plummets as he looks across at me expectantly, and my voice comes out strained. "I think it would be best if you found another agent."

Mr DeLuca settles back in his seat without saying a word. There's so much heat in his eyes I struggle to think straight.

He remains silent, so I keep talking.

"I didn't realise, you know." I gesture around us, swallowed up by the intensity of his gaze. "When I agreed to this, I didn't know who you were."

I desperately wish the ground would swallow me whole. Talking back to Mr DeLuca feels different knowing he could kill me and not think twice.

"I think you need an agent who is more comfortable working outside the law," I say before I can take it back. "I'm not comfortable with any of this and I never will be. I can't walk into a house and wonder whether there's going to be a dead body in it or not."

I shudder. Never did I think I would need to say those words out loud.

Mr DeLuca observes me like he can read every thought in my mind. I find myself shifting in my seat, too nervous to remain still any longer.

The silence between us is deafening.

"I'm afraid our deal must remain in place, Miss Buchanan," he says smoothly. "You know too much to simply walk away now."

He speaks with so much authority, I find my confidence dwindling. Though he hasn't said it directly, I can tell this isn't up for negotiation.

He won't let me get out of this.

"What about the murderer? They'll know I found Jordan." I try to sound strong, but the truth is, I have to squeeze my hands to keep them from trembling.

"That's why our deal must remain in place," he answers, his gaze dark. "There's a murderer out there. Your association to me is likely the only reason you're still alive."

I want to answer, but I can't. My mouth is so dry I can barely swallow, let alone speak.

Anxiety courses through my body, unease filling my soul when he stands and gestures for me to follow him.

This arrangement was supposed to be nothing more than a business transaction. I'd help Mr DeLuca buy houses, and in exchange, I'd be the most influential agent in New York. But now...now I'm linked to a coldblooded murder.

A murder tied to the mafia.

I've embedded myself right into the spider's web, and I have no idea how to get myself out of it.