"What?" I panic, taking Mr Bianchi's coat from Art to see for myself. I pull a small red weapon from the wool pocket and eye it wearily. It looks like an ordinary pocketknife. There's no trace of blood.

"No way." I shake my head. "There's no way."

"Who just carries a pocketknife around with them? And what is he even doing here?" Art hisses back, raising an eyebrow.

"Nobody would be stupid enough to walk around with a murder weapon," I argue.

"Unless you're smug enough to think you won't get caught," Art counters. "Think about it. Why would he think I'd go through his stuff? You can't feel it at all through the thickness of this fabric."

"Why did you go through his jacket anyway?" I ask hurriedly, glancing back at the door to make sure Mr Bianchi is still inside.

'He's a wealthy Italian businessman," Art whispers back in the same tone. "I had a hunch, I don't know. The guy's dodgy as fuck."

"What do I do?" I breathe, attempting to gather my thoughts. "He's asking about the house, that's why he's here."

"Oh my God, he may as well tattoo guilty on his forehead," Art exclaims, looking back to my office. "We play it cool, I'll come back in with you, and we try to get rid of him as fast as we can."

He pauses before speaking again. "While we're there, maybe we try to get as much incriminating evidence as possible and then—"

"No!" I stop, forcing myself to take a breath. "No, you're right. We just get rid of him as fast as possible," I answer, gathering myself.

Mr Bianchi cannot be a killer. Can he? Sure, he's cold, ruthless, and Italian, but that could just be a coincidence, right? What would he have to gain from killing Jordan? How did he even know Jordan?

Sure, Jordan swooped in and tried to take a deal out from underneath him, but that can't be enough motive. I'm missing too many pieces of the puzzle to simply decide he's the killer.

The only thing I can't explain is why he's here asking about a house the day after Jordan was murdered in it.

My sleep deprived brain is on the verge of collapsing.

"Sorry about that. Adele's a very popular lady," Art takes the lead, and he takes it well. He's easily able to act like his usual self. "She mentioned you were asking about Sawyers Road? That's a new area for you."

Mr Bianchi examines us both before adjusting the gold chain that sits around his hairy chest, on full display due to the unnecessary number of buttons he has undone on his dress shirt.

"A businessman must always look to expand his horizons, Art. I'm sure you understand," Mr Bianchi answers without batting an eyelid.

The atmosphere in here suddenly feels colder than it did ten minutes ago.

"Well, as I mentioned Sawyers Road went under contact yesterday, but I'd be happy to keep an eye out on anything new that comes up," I manage to say in my usual professional tone despite the unease building within the pit of my stomach.

"I would appreciate that Adele, thank you." He smiles at me before standing, shaking Art's hand and then turning to me.

He pulls me into a firm handshake, leaning close enough to make me nervous.

"Tell Milo I say hello," he whispers.

Milo? Milo?! My subconscious screams at me.

I do my best not to look fazed, keeping my expression neutral. "I'm not sure what you mean," I answer, watching the sly smile grow on his face.

"Oh Bella, I think we both know that you do."

He steps backwards before I can think of anything to say.

Don't react. Don't react. Don't react.

"Have a good day Mr Bianchi," I breathe, catching Art's sideways look.

"Let me walk you out," Art offers, opening the door for him to walk through. Mr Bianchi thanks him smoothly before finally freeing me of his presence.

Surely, he's trying to mess with me. Who would just admit to murder?

This must be some sort of twisted game. A game I do not wish to play.

I sit down at my desk once again, reaching for my phone.

Either way, I have to tell Mr DeLuca what's happened. I have no choice. If I don't, who knows what Mr Bianchi's next steps will be.

I press down on Jordan's name and try my luck. It dials once before someone answers.

"Miss Buchanan," Happy greets. "Is everything alright?"

"I need to speak to your brother. What's his number?" I ask quietly.

Happy scoffs loudly. "If I gave out his number, he'd kill me. Slowly and painfully."

Groaning, I run a hand down my face. "Happy, I have information about Jordan. This is important. Can you get him to call me back as soon as he can? Please."

"Jordan?" Happy repeats, more serious now. "Hang on."

"Happy, wait," I begin, but I'm put on hold before I can continue.

Nervousness gets the better of me, and I find myself tapping my pen repeatedly while I wait.

One minute passes, then two, then three.

"You need to come here. We can't talk about it over the phone," Happy breathes hurriedly into the line.

"Go to you? Happy, I won't do that. I've done my part by calling. Do you want the information or not?"

Rachel knocks on my door again, popping her head in. "Adele, the Roberts are here to discuss their property on Vaile Road."

"I have to go." I glance at the door, waiting for Rachel to leave before I continue. "Tell your brother I'm done. I want out of all of this. Okay? I've had enough. I can't be involved."

"Wait, you're really saying no to coming?" Happy sounds flabbergasted.

"Yes, I'm saying no," I tell him, standing. "Goodbye, Happy."

"Adele, Milo will be—"

I hang up, cutting him off before he can say anything else.

Honestly, the nerve of this man. I try to help him, and he expects me to drive forty minutes out of town just to talk to him?

He can find out about Mr Bianchi himself.

I am officially removing myself from all of this. I want to go back to the way things were before I ever met Mr DeLuca. Before I ever agreed to work with him. No amount of success is worth the hard lump of fear that's taken up permanent residence in my stomach.

***

The next couple of hours go by quickly.

I do everything I can to distract myself from Mr Bianchi. I meet with the Roberts about listing their home next month, we have our usual sales meeting, and then I spend my afternoon with our marketing guru Aimee, going over the plans for our upcoming listings.

"I really like this," I tell her, flicking through the example pamphlet she's given me. "What made you decide to incorporate the—" I pause, looking up at her. She isn't focusing on me any longer. Instead, her attention has turned to our reception area.

"Aimee?" I ask, noticing the red taint to her cheeks. "What's going on with you?" I ask, leaning back in my chair to look over her shoulder.

"Oh my..." I mutter, my gaze landing on Mr DeLuca.

He's standing in front of Rachel at our front desk, saying something to her I can't make out. Today he's wearing a crisp black suit, perfectly tailored. The way it moulds to his body should be illegal.

I can't believe he came all the way here.

"You know him?" Aimee glances at me with a suggestive smile.

"Unfortunately," I mutter, turning my attention back to the pamphlet in front of me.

"He is very attractive," Aimee whispers, grinning when I roll my eyes. "How do you know him? Is he a client? Or..."

"Aimee, can we please get back to work?" I gesture to the paperwork, and she nods apologetically, throwing a final longing look in Mr DeLuca's direction.

I do my best to ignore his presence, though I'm well aware simply by the way my body warms that his eyes have found me.

"Ah, Adele." Rachel appears beside me barely a minute later. "Mr DeLuca is here, and he said he needs to speak to you. Now."

I lean back in my seat again, just enough to glance casually at our reception area. Mr DeLuca hasn't bothered to sit on one of our sofas. Instead, he's still standing at the desk, looking right at me with an expectant, pissed off expression.

"Tell him to sit down. I'll be ten minutes. Thank you, Rachel," I answer, noticing her doubtful look.

"You want me to tell him to wait?" she squeaks before somewhat composing her flustered self. "Okay?"

Yes, I think for once in his life, he can wait a moment.

"We can finish this later, Adele. Really," Aimee offers, but I shake my head, glancing back at reception again.

Mr DeLuca's lips press into a thin line as Rachel speaks, his annoyance evident as his gaze returns to me once more.

I smile at him in response, unable to resist the urge.

Now he too knows how it feels to wait.

The heated look he sends back sends shivers right down my spine.

I don't let myself look at him any longer after that, but as promised, exactly ten minutes later I walk past Rachel's desk into our waiting area.

Mr DeLuca's tall figure is hunched forward on our dainty sofa, his elbows resting on his knees as he stares intently at his phone.

"Mr DeLuca, thank you for waiting," I muse, clasping my hands together. "Would you like to come through now?"

Slowly, he looks up from his screen, his eyes trailing my body as he does so. The darkness of his lingering stare makes me incredibly flustered and a little nervous, but I refuse to show it.

He looks casually elegant as he stands, stepping forward until we're barely inches from each other.

My breath is in my throat as he looks down at me, his eyes heated and alive with wickedness.

"I believe we're past formalities now." He lowers his lips to my ear, so close they almost graze my skin. If I move an inch forward, I'll be pressed flush against his body. "Don't you think, Adele?" he murmurs before brushing past me.

I want to answer, I do, but I've lost all ability to form a coherent sentence. My body buzzes like a livewire, and he's the fuse.

Maybe getting out of his web won't be as easy as I thought.