Keep cool, remain calm, stay composed.

I repeat this to myself over and over again as I step into my office behind Mr DeLuca, closing the door slowly.

He hasn't sat down yet, so neither do I.

His back is to me as he gazes out the view of my window, overlooking New York and the Hudson river. It's quite something on a clear day like this, but even its beauty can't distract me from the man standing a few feet away.

After what feels like forever, I pull out my chair, sitting down wearily, keeping my eyes fixated on the broadness of Mr DeLuca's back.

His silence is making me uneasy.

"How many staff do you have?" he asks, without turning away from the window.

I lift a brow. Not at all the question I was expecting.

"Twelve. How many do you have?" I counter, catching the corner of his mouth lifting.

"Too many to count." He dismisses my question, finally turning around.

I tilt my head at him, aware he is openly assessing me head to toe.

"What is it?" I ask.

I've never been self-conscious. Life is too short to worry about what people think of me, and if I cared about the opinions of arrogant men I never would have gotten anywhere. 

But it's different with him. He makes me feel...doubtful. Doubtful of everything I've ever known and thought because I've never felt like this before. I don't know what this is, or why when he looks at me, I feel like I'm on fire and filled with adrenaline that runs deep down to my soul.

I've seen attractive men before; I've worked with them plenty of times. Why is this different? Why him? I should despise him and everything he represents.

"How long have you been out on your own for?" he questions, taking the seat opposite me with unmissable authority.

"With my own agency?" I send him a sideways look. What an odd question. "I don't know, almost two years. Why?"

He continues to watch me like he's mapping together some kind of puzzle I don't understand.

"I find you very endearing," he muses, unaware of how flustered his words make me. "All of this—" he pauses, gesturing to the space around us. "You're very accomplished for someone so young. It's quite impressive."

Did he just compliment me?

I force my brain to think of an answer.

"The counter side of success is that I don't do anything except work. I'm not sure that's so impressive."

He says nothing for a moment.

"What do you know about Jordan?"

And just like that, he's returned to his ever so cold, unreadable self.

"I have a client, Dante Bianchi." The moment I say his name, Mr DeLuca's demeanour changes. A hard look crosses his face, one of anger. It's frightening.

I don't let myself flinch under his intimidating stare.

"We've been working with him for a few months as his buyer's agent," I say, though I don't know why I feel the need to explain myself suddenly. "The deal I won from Jordan, that house was for him."

Mr DeLuca stays silent. I don't have a clue what he's thinking.

"Today he came in, asking questions about... that house. Then Art, my assistant, found a knife in his coat and on his way out he told me to say hello to you on his behalf." I'm beyond blabbering at this point, my unease with the situation showing. "I don't know how he's connected to all of this, but he certainly wanted me to believe he killed Jordan."

"But you don't think he did?" Mr DeLuca asks, observing my every move.

"I'm no murder expert Mr DeLuca. I believe that's your area of expertise."

"Milo," he corrects me, and I manage to stifle a nod in response. "You don't think he killed Jordan?" Mr De—Milo repeats his question.

Releasing a breath, I shake my head. "Jordan was young, strong." I pause, contemplating my answer. "Mr Bianchi is almost sixty and I don't think he's done any exercise in his life. He can barely walk up stairs without losing his breath. For Jordan to have been killed so easily, without any struggle for me to hear outside... I don't know, I think it had to be someone else. Someone more able."

Milo nods silently, once again I can't tell what he's thinking, and it really bothers me. I can't get anything from him.

"That's as much help as I can be with all of this," I say. "We can't work together anymore; this has all been..." I compose my emotion, the truth of it is, I'm exhausted. "Your world is too dangerous for me to associate myself with, more dangerous than I ever thought when I first agreed to this arrangement."

The look in Milo's eyes is one I do not like.

"I'm afraid it's not as simple as that now Adele," he rasps. "You're tied to a murder. Dante knows you're associated with me. Simply saying you're done with this doesn't remove you from the situation."

"No? And what about the agreement we made about my safety?" I push back, panicking. "You agreed I would be safe if we worked together, and I'm not feeling very safe at the moment."

A different look crosses his face, one I haven't seen before until now.

"I will make sure nothing happens to you," he assures me, the intensity in his voice overwhelming. "I understand you are shaken; the best I can offer you is some time to get over what's happened. You are too entangled to walk away Adele. Our agreement must remain in place."

"I don't want anything to do with you, or any of this," I breathe shakily, refusing to crack though I desperately feel like I could. The reality of my mess is catching up with me.

"You have a lot of knowledge now, Adele. That is a dangerous thing in my world. As an associate, I can protect you, but if you're not working with me, you are no more than a loose end I can't afford."

"Is that meant to be a threat?" I ask, voice wavering.

"It is merely a fact," he answers coolly. "At least this way, you will have my protection."

"Lucky me," I murmur dryly, turning away from him. "You can see yourself out, I have another meeting to get to now," I lie.

Standing abruptly, I bolt away without looking back at him. Somehow I manage to keep my composure until I reach the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

It's only then I finally let my stray tear fall.

My deal with the devil, it seems, is going to be impossible to undo.

***    

The following week is much less eventful than the last. Life seems to return to normal, at least I try to tell myself that.

I haven't heard from Milo yet, nor do I think about him.

Okay, that's a lie.

I think about him a lot.

The accent, the heated gazes, his commanding presence and the easy authority he has without trying. I've never met anyone like him. I didn't think it was possible for a person to be so reserved and captivating at the same time.

I hate myself for wanting him, but I do and that doesn't make any sense.

I am a rational person, but he makes me feel the complete opposite.

Why?

The only logical answer I've come up with is... I've gone completely insane.

All week I've been doing my best to keep myself busy, to help me forget the mess I'm in.

Art's birthday is the perfect opportunity to keep my thoughts away from him.

I'm sitting at a round table in some upmarket club downtown, the music blaring from every direction around me. Usually, this sort of thing isn't my scene, but being Art's birthday, I have to make an effort, plus... distraction.

"Cheers!" The group of friends I'm with clink glasses and we all down a shot. I've lost track of what number this is, but the putrid taste of vodka is dissolving, which means I must be a few drinks deep now.

"Are you alright?" Jamie, Art's partner, checks on me for the millionth time. "I've never seen you drink this much before," he yells over the thumping base.

"I'm great," I reassure him, smiling.

Jamie is our accountant, that's how he and Art first met a year ago. They couldn't be more different if they tried. Art is a strong-willed firecracker and Jamie, well Jamie is a walking teddy bear who looks a lot like Adam DeVine.

"I'm so proud of you!" Art, who is well and truly drunk off his face screams at me. "Another shot, and then we dance!"

Distraction.

"Yes!" I cheer, ignoring Jamie's brotherly look of concern.

I'm going to regret this tomorrow, but for now, the pulsating feeling of alcohol running through my veins is like an addiction. The burning sensation blocking my thoughts, stopping them from drifting to a certain someone in particular.

From drifting to the deal I foolishly made to take over New York city. To Jordan, dead on the floor. To the way that everything in my life feels so much more overwhelming than it did last week, when happiness was measured in commissions and climbing that career ladder.

Before him is a time I now know I'll never be able to go back to.

The dance floor is packed, but I don't care. The alcohol has numbed my senses. Art grins at me, I'm sure we must look like fools as we lose it to 'Yeah!' by Usher, a classic.

It feels good to not care about anything for once.

I sway to the music, twirl in circles with Art and laugh until it hurts to laugh anymore.

"Where are we?" I yell to Art over the music, and he contemplates this for a moment.

"It's new," he shouts back. "Can't remember what it's called."

"Oh shit!" I stop jumping, looking around clearly for the first time since I arrived here.

We'd been out for dinner and a lot of drinks before this. By the time we arrived here I was too tipsy to take notice of where we were, but I know this place.

It looks different now it's dark and filled with people, but this is the club.

The club I met Jordan.

Milo's club.

"What's wrong?" Art slurs, as Jamie joins him at his side. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm good, I'm good," I reassure him, though I find my head is starting to spin. "I'm just going to use the bathroom, you guys have fun."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Jamie asks, looking around at the many people here. "I'm not sure you should go on your own."

"I'm fine Dad, I promise," I hold up my phone. "I will call you if I need you, okay?"

"Be careful," Jamie says unsurely, never one to argue.

I offer them both a wide smile and move my way through the crowds of people. I do need to use a bathroom, but first, I need another drink.

I force my way to the bar, this place really is crowded.

"Can I have a shot of tequila please?" I ask the bartender, who smirks at me before nodding.

"You're really having a good time tonight, aren't you?" a male at my side asks.

I glance at him, he's smiling at me in an overconfident, arrogant way. His cologne is so strong it's almost making me sick.

"That is generally the idea of going out," I mutter, pulling myself together enough to step away from him.

"Let me buy your drink," he says, but it's less of an offer and more of a demand.

"I'm good, thanks," I answer without looking at him.

"I'm only trying to be nice," he says, grasping my arm.

Now I do look at him, turning around to examine the ridiculously tight shirt he wears.

"You're trying to do a lot more than that," I attempt to pull my arm away. "Let go." I warn, doing my best not to slur my words.

His eyes flash with despicable amusement. He doesn't release his grip on me, in fact he pulls me closer, his body much stronger than mine.

"Let go," I repeat, with the remainder of my dwindling courage.

"Oh yeah, or what?" the stranger asks daringly.

"Or I'll fucking kill you," a threatening voice says from behind me.

That voice.

His voice.

Milo.