I press the button for the twelfth floor. “It’s Midtown, Paul. Heart’s expensive up here.”
He chuckles, leaning against the mirrored wall. “You got that right. You sure about this lawyer stuff?”
“I’m sure,” I tell him. “I need to get this sorted for Savannah.”
He looks down at the carrier, and she’s still fast asleep, one tiny fist pressed against her cheek. “She’s worth every damn cent.”
Something in his tone makes me glance up. His eyes have softened, that quiet kind of tenderness that sneaks up on him when he thinks no one’s watching. It happens a lot more than I’m sure he’d like.
“Don’t go worrying about the lease,” he says after a beat, straightening up as the elevator hums upward. “I told the lawyer to make it solid. You’ll have it in your hands tomorrow.”
“That fast?”
He lifts his cane. “I don’t like waiting around when there are things to be done.”
“Very impressive.”
“Thought I was done with physical therapists when I retired my jersey, the Italian and the others decided I was not.”
“And?”
He rolls his eyes, “Hate this cane, but it’s better than that damn walker.”
The elevator slows, the light above the door blinking from eleven to twelve.
“Paul, the lease, thank—” I start, but he cuts me off with that easy smile.
“Don’t thank me yet. Wait ‘til you read the fine print.”
The doors slide open, and the scent of expensive cologne and floor polish rushes in. He gestures toward the hallway with mock formality. “Let’s go get ‘em.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“Maybe I do.”
I didn't think that I wanted anyone with me through this, but right now, yeah, it'll be good to have Paul.
When we enter the lobby, I glance down to make sure Savannah is still asleep, and she is, soundly. Her little hand curled under her chin, while Paul and I approach the reception desk.
The woman behind it offers a polite, crisp, practiced smile. “Ms. Holloway, you’re a few minutes early. He’ll appreciate that. Come right this way.”
Paul gives me a mocking look, like we’re about to meet royalty, and I grin. Then we follow her down a long hallway lined with framed photos of courthouses and law awards, everything perfectly symmetrical,perfectly serious.
When she opens the double doors, I almost gasp. The office is enormous—polished floors, dark wood, and an entire wall of glass overlooking the city. Every piece of furniture is expensive but not loud, the kind of wealth that whispers because it knows it doesn’t need to shout.
And behind that desk is Hugo Vale.
He stands as we enter, and I blink because he’s younger than I expected. Mid-thirties, maybe. Broad-shouldered, clean-cut, just enough scruff to make the man in the suit look real and not staged. His tie is loose, his sleeves rolled once at the cuffs, and his expression—sharp but not cold—suggests he’s already read everything about me that he needs to know.
He steps forward, extending a hand. “Ms. Holloway. Hugo Vale. It’s good to meet you.”
His handshake is firm, his voice low and smooth, the kind that I imagine could quiet a courtroom or dismantle an opponent without raising its volume.
“This is Paul Bronski,” I say.
Hugo nods like he’s already familiar. “Mr. Bronski. We’ve crossed paths.”
“Lucky you,” Paul says with a grin that earns a flicker of amusement from Hugo.
