I walk silently behind Mr DeLuca, gawking at the extravagant estate he leads me through.

Unlike when I was walking with Happy. The men we pass don't look at me for even a second this time. They only acknowledge Mr DeLuca, calling him Don. Whatever that means.

It's clear by the way they look at him that they respect him, not out of fear, but something else... admiration, maybe.

When we finally get outside, I feel like I can breathe properly. The grounds surrounding the mansion are large. Beautiful. It's very isolated, wherever we are. Though I can understand the mafia not wanting to be in the central city.

There's a blacked-out SUV waiting for us; a new Bentley. Of course.

DeLuca opens the passenger door for me without hesitating, catching me off guard with the gesture.

"Thank you," I murmur.

He simply nods and closes the door, giving nothing away as per usual.

I find myself sinking against the expensive leather of my seat, placing my hands on my lap before knotting my fingers together tightly. The butterflies forming in my stomach must be due to my head injury, I'm sure of it.

From the corner of my eye, I watch him as he effortlessly climbs into the car, revving the engine. He puts on black sunglasses that further emphasise just how perfectly his face is structured.

At this point, I can't deny feeling attracted to him. Anyone would be, but it's okay. I can be attracted to him and ignore the feeling entirely.

He's a client. A dangerous client I need to untie myself from... Somehow.

Dangerous, I remind my subconscious firmly as the smell of his masculine cologne fills my senses.

"It's alright Adele. Breathe," he says, voice thick but radiant with a calmness I could never have given the situation we're in.

His fingers graze my trembling knee lightly. It's barely a touch, but the sensation makes me feel like I have electricity in my veins instead of blood.

I have never felt so alive and terrified at the same time.

"You're shaking," he notes with a frown before smoothly retracting his hand.

Meanwhile, I'm sure my eyes look like they're about to bulge out of my head.

"Yes, well, murder is not an everyday occurrence for me," I answer in the most unbothered tone I can manage, hiding my flustered response to his touch.

I shift in my seat and stare ahead at the road, refusing to look at him despite feeling his heated gaze on me every few seconds.

"Do you have any idea who might have killed him?" I blurt out before the tension in the car can grow any thicker. "Jordan, I mean."

Who else, idiot. My subconscious rolls her eyes at me.

I allow myself one opportunity to look at him. It's at the same time he happens to look at me.

He clears his throat and turns his attention back to the road almost instantly, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.

"Jordan was mixed up in a lot of different things against my advice," DeLuca explains vaguely.

"Still, it must make you look bad if one of your men can be murdered in plain daylight," I say before I think about what I'm implying.

"Once we know who is responsible, they will receive an adequate response," he answers coolly. The icy edge to his voice makes me shiver. I understand the implication. I've worked with plenty of powerful men before, but I've never met anyone like Mr DeLuca. Equal parts magnetising and chilling.

This man is putting me in some kind of trance, locking me in a twisted spell.

I don't say anything in return. I just nod because I don't think I have the voice to speak.

Today has been... too much. I'd only met Jordan three times, but still, his murder is affecting me more than Mr DeLuca. Clearly, he has seen a lot of death.

I should be miles away from him, safe in my little cocoon. Instead, here I am, sitting in the passenger seat of his four hundred-thousand-dollar car.

The tense silence returns to the small space we're confined in until DeLuca speaks a few minutes later.

"Why did you get into real estate?"

His random question catches me completely off guard.

Is he genuinely interested, or is he just sick of the tension between us? Either way, his focus remains on the road.

"Why did you get into the mafia?" I counter.

Even with sunglasses on, I can tell he's rolling his eyes at me.

His voice drops. "I asked first."

"My Mom is an architect. Growing up she was always showing me different houses and designs she worked on. I knew I wanted to be my own boss, so it was an easy choice," I explain, glancing at him.

"And your father, is he in the industry?" DeLuca asks, surprising me once again.

"My Dad is an orthodontist," I answer, turning towards him slightly. "And your father, is he in the industry?"

"It runs in the family, yes." His tone is distant. I can tell he doesn't like talking about himself.

He attempts to turn the attention back to me once more. "Do you have siblings?"

Why is he so curious?

"Only child. You?"

"Two brothers. You met one of them," he says, catching my confused look. "Henri—Happy," he corrects.

"Happy is your brother?" My jaw falls. "But he's so... nice."

DeLuca smirks sideways at me, and I swear I flush red despite my best effort to control it.

"I'm sure I can be nice when I want to be, Adele."

My mind turns to mush momentarily. The implication of his words and smoothness of his tone is not good for the butterflies I'm doing my best to control.

He's not someone I can imagine being nice. He's not someone I can imagine being anything other than a terrifying beast of a man who takes whatever he wants as he pleases.

What would a softer side of him look like? Does he even have a soft side beneath his rugged exterior?

No. I must not view him as anything but dangerous!

My subconscious is well and truly at war.

I need to catch my breath; my lungs have forgotten how to work.

We don't speak again until we enter downtown, and he asks for my address. Time seems to slow, and all I want to do is escape the heat of this car and the terrible feelings I have inside me.

He rounds the corner my apartment is on, pulling over on the opposite side of the road.

The moment he parks, I open my door, but his voice stops me before I can free myself from his overbearing presence.

"If you remember anything else that happened today, I need you to contact me immediately," he says. The edge of warning in his voice worries me. "Call Jordan's number. Happy will have the phone on him."

"Okay." I nod, gripping the door handle more tightly.

The fact that he seems on edge makes me feel even worse.

He gazes at me before looking across the street, examining our surroundings with a predator-like stare. I have no idea what he's looking for.

After a moment, he finally turns back at me. The intensity in his eyes restricts the air in my lungs.

I'm very aware of how close we are to one another. Close enough that I can see the faded scar running down the side of his neck.

He just looks at me, staring into my soul in a way I've never experienced before. I wish I knew what he was thinking, but his expression remains as guarded as ever.

If my heart beats any faster, I'm certain I'll go into cardiac arrest. My body betrays me.

Forcing my mind to come to its senses, I undo my seatbelt and break the unbearable pull between us.

"Be careful," he says.

Two words. Two very simple words that leave me feeling sick to my core because I'm frightened. I'm frightened of how on edge he seems and I'm even more frightened by the idea that he may somehow care about my safety... That I want him to care about my safety.

What is wrong with me?

"I will," I finally answer, not trusting my voice any longer.

Milo scans my face hesitantly with a clenched jaw.

"I'll be in touch," he says, his voice tense.

I nod and practically stumble from his car, resisting the urge to run towards my apartment. Instead, I walk quickly across the street, hoping for the life of me that my shaking body isn't noticeable from this distance.

It's only once I'm inside with my door closed that I hear him drive away.

Is he watching over me? Could I be in danger?

I suppose that is likely now.

In some ways I'm lucky to be alive. Who knows what would have happened if I'd walked inside a second earlier than I did. Could the killer have been in the house when I found Jordan? Could they have been watching my reaction when I found him?

I shudder at the thought, forcing myself into the shower to wash away the events of today.

After a good half an hour in scolding hot water, I try to eat dinner, but my appetite has vanished. Sleep doesn't find me again that night either.

Every time I close my eyes all I see is Jordan, like a living nightmare in my mind, replaying over and over again.

So instead of sleeping, I toss and turn and respond to work emails at 1:30 in the morning with my headphones blasting.

Anything to distract myself from the web of danger I'm ensnared in.

***

By four the next morning, I'm up again.

Usually, I can only run about nine miles in an hour, but today I clock twelve. Adrenaline keeps me going.

Every time I think about Jordan, I push harder, run faster, crave the burning pain in my lungs more than ever before.

To balance out the extra miles and lack of sleep, I triple the strength of my coffee on my way to work.

Art is already waiting for me the minute I step foot inside the office.

"Where the hell have you been?" he questions, watching me drop my purse on my desk in front of him. "I almost called a search party when you didn't come back yesterday. I thought you were kidnapped, or worse by...them," he whispers, as if somehow, they can hear us.

"I'm sorry—I," I begin, and then pause, flinching under his stare.

"Don't even think about lying to me, Adele Marie Buchanan," he warns. "I know everything there is to know about you. If you can't confide in me, who else is there?"

I lean back in my seat. He is right. He knows every dirty secret I've ever had. We've been friends since we were in high school. He's less of an assistant and more of a business partner, the only person I can actually trust.

So for the next twenty minutes, I share in vivid detail everything that happened yesterday afternoon. From finding Jordan to Mr DeLuca.

Art doesn't interrupt, not even once, and the expression on his face doesn't change. He simply watches me like a hawk.

When I finally finish, he asks. "How was Jordan killed? You didn't hear a gunshot or screaming?"

"They cut his throat with a blade." I can barely say the words out loud. "I didn't hear anything; I didn't even think anything was wrong until I found him."

"How could someone have gotten into that house without you knowing? It's got more alarms than The Louvre."

"I have no idea," I sigh. "None of it makes any sense. I barely feel like any of it is real. It's more like a dream."

"Well, one thing we know for sure is you aren't working with Mr DeLuca anymore. It's too dangerous. Your first day and you witness his other associate being killed? And you can't even go to the police because they're on his payroll?" Art shakes his head. "Your safety is more important than any potential amount of money."

If only it was that simple. If only I could just walk away from it all.

Before I can answer, knocking on the door interrupts us.

Our receptionist, Rachel, smiles apologetically as she peeps through the door.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but Mr Bianchi is here, and he wants to see you... now."

"Now? Without an appointment?" Art raises an eyebrow. "This week just keeps getting better and better."

"Let him in. Thank you, Rachel." I smile at her. The last thing I need is a pissed off client on my hands.

"What could he want? The house sale went through without a glitch," Art whispers as Mr Bianchi comes barging in.

"My favourite realtors, Adele and Art." His Italian accent is strong as he grins at us, and I do my best to compose my surprise.

Mr Bianchi never smiles.

Judging by the look on Art's face, he's taken back too.

"Mr Bianchi, may I take your fabulous coat?" Art offers, standing.

He's pretending to be polite, but really, he just wants to get out of here as fast as possible.

Traitor.

Mr Bianchi nods, passing the designer piece of clothing to him. "Thank you."

"I'll leave you both to it," Art hums. 'Have fun' he mouths over Mr Bianchi's shoulder, smiling sweetly.

"So, Mr Bianchi, what can I do for you?" I ask, composing myself.

It's silent for a moment before he says, "I'm interested in that property, the one on Sawyers Road. Is it still for sale?"

"Sawyers Road?" I ask. Sawyers Road is The Hamptons house from yesterday.

The house Jordan was murdered in.

I mask my shock as best I can. "I thought The Hamptons wasn't the right location for you."

Mr Bianchi barely blinks as he looks across at me. "It wasn't, but I've decided to expand. Property out that way is up and coming."

That's far from accurate, but I decide not to correct him.

"Unfortunately, that house was put under contract yesterday," I inform him, keeping my breathing steady.

"Really?" He sounds incredibly surprised. "Who bought it?"

"I'm afraid that's confidential," I reply, watching his eyes flash with wicked gleam.

Suddenly, Art reappears, opening my door without knocking. "Excuse me, so sorry. Adele, can I talk to you?" he rushes. "Now."

I send him a sideways look, turning back to Mr Bianchi.

"Would you mind?" I ask politely.

"Not at all. I have all the time in the world," he muses, leaning back in his chair.

It's hard not to be thrown by his sudden change in demeanour. I still feel shocked as I join Art outside.

"What's wrong?" I ask as Art drags me to the far corner of our reception area.

He spins around, holding Mr Bianchi's coat secretly, the colour drained from his cheeks.

"There's a blade," he stutters. "There's—there's a blade in his coat pocket."