He let out a quiet breath. “It would take months. Maybe years. It’s expensive, messy, and you still might not win. Max has good lawyers. Very good lawyers.”
“You’re a good lawyer,” I pointed out.
“And I work for Max,” he interjected.
“What about me?”
His mouth twitched slightly—almost a smile, but not quite. “You’re paying me a dollar, Valentina. For a dollar, you get the truth, not miracles.”
Fair enough.
Still, I couldn’t help the disappointment that clawed at me again. If Marco couldn’t help me, then who could? The thought of going back out there, begging someone else, explaining myself again—it was exhausting.
My fingers tightened on my bag, digging into the leather. “Then what the hell am I supposed to do?”
For a long moment he didn’t answer. He just watched me. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful. “You play the game better than Max does. Find someone safe, get married, take your inheritance, and get out.”
“But he won’t marry me off until I’m sober.”
“And you’re not?” he asked.
“No.”
I wondered if he understood why. Going cold turkey usually hit me like a bus going seventy miles per hour. It wasn’t just the shakes or the headaches—it was deeper, uglier, as if someone had reached inside and started pulling out pieces of me I didn’t even know existed. Sobriety stripped me down to my bones, showed me every scar, every flaw I’d spent years covering up.
“Well,” he said, disappointed, “you might want to start.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
“Valentina, this isn’t just about the money. You know that, right? You were married to a maninsidethe Outfit. Your name, whether you like it or not, still holds weight. They’re not just going to let you walk away with millions.”
“Do you really think I don’t know that?”
“You’re not acting like you do.”
“So what do I do then? Just roll over and let them control the rest of my life?”
Marco looked hesitant. Almost like hewantedto help.
“You want your money?” he said finally. “Then you need to make yourself look like less of a problem.”
“And how do you suggest I do that?”
He leaned back in his chair. “One—stay sober. Make it last long enough that Max starts thinking you can handle the responsibility of having more money than sense.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “You and I both know that’s not happening.”
His didn’t argue. “Two—stop letting people like Sebastian Callahan through your door. Whether you’re sleeping with him or not, Max doesn’t trust you, and he trusts them even less. You want this process to move faster? Cut ties.”
I frowned, twisting the bracelet on my wrist. “Next.”
“Three—you find another way to meet the clause requirements without making Max suspicious.”
That got my attention. I sat up slightly. “And how would I do that?”
“Legally speaking, the clause only requires you to be married. It doesn’t specify the state of the marriage, only that it exists.”
“So, what, I just find some poor idiot willing to tie the knot for a payday?”
