I peered past him, searching the hallway but finding it empty. My unease grew; I hated surprises, especially with my life hanging in the balance.
“Who is it?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even, unwilling to show any hint of vulnerability.
Milo hesitated before answering, “She wouldn’t give me her name, only that you needed to talk to her.”
I repeated, surprised, “She?”
“Yeah, boss, a woman, but...” Milo’s eyes darted around and he leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. “She’s scary.”
With a frown, I stepped back slightly, studying Milo’s uneasy expression. “What do you mean by scary?”
He shook his head, unable to put his feelings into words. “Can’t explain it, boss. There’s just something about her. She’s dangerous.”
I felt a chill run down my spine. “Where is she?” I demanded.
“Waiting in the sitting room with Georgio, Alanzo, and Marcus,” Milo replied, his voice still edged with caution.
The situation was clearly tense, and I needed to know where everyone else was. “Where is Miranda?” I asked quickly.
“Down in the gym with her security team,” Milo answered.
Not willing to take any chances, I gave him a firm order. “Keep her down there.” Without another word, I strode past Milo, heading off to face my mysterious visitor.
Moving cautiously, I reached for my gun, making sure to chamber a round and disengage the safety. There was no way I was going to let my guard down; the possibility that Sinclair had sent someone to finish me off was all too real. It wouldnot have surprised me, considering everything I now knew. Ever since Guilio revealed the truth, I had spent countless hours contacting everyone I trusted, desperate for information about my wife’s father. Each report confirmed Guilio’s description—and somehow, the reality was even more disturbing than I had expected.
Steeling myself, I rounded the corner and entered the sitting room. The sight that met me stopped me cold. Seated with an air of complete confidence was a breathtaking woman, her midnight black hair and piercing steel-gray eyes commanding the room. She was striking—her impeccably tailored black suit hugged her curves, amplifying her presence. She regarded me with a relaxed demeanor, her lips curled into a knowing smile, but what truly captured my attention was Milo’s men lying on the ground and the gun she had pointed at me with a silencer on the end.
“Hello, Mr. Vitale. You may call me Mischief.” The beautiful woman’s voice was smooth and sugary sweet, belying the tension in the air as I detected a hint of a Southern twang in her voice. With a graceful gesture toward the men sprawled on the floor, she sighed, her expression almost apologetic. “I did ask them nicely, but they refused to leave. Don’t worry. I didn’t kill them. That would be bad manners. Now, why don’t you put your gun away and sit so we can have a civil conversation?”
I hesitated, then did as she asked, slowly holstering my gun but never taking my eyes off her. Crossing the room, I lowered myself into the chair opposite her, the tension between us palpable. “You know they won’t like that you bested them,” I remarked, my tone even as I settled into the seat.
She gave a delicate shrug, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Then maybe the next time a lady politely asks them for privacy, they will honor her request.”
I studied her with a hint of a challenge in my voice. “And are you a lady?”
A slow grin spread across her face; her confidence was unmistakable. “Oh, I’m that and a whole lot more, Mr. Vitale.”
I fixed Mischief with a steady gaze, trying to gauge her intentions. “You have my attention, Mischief. How can I help you?” I asked, careful to keep my tone neutral despite the tension lingering in the air.
She leaned forward, her voice sweet and unhurried as she replied, “Oh, honey, it’s not what you can do for me, but rather what I can do for you.” The words hung between us, carrying both promise and mystery.
Her accent was unmistakable, lingering in every syllable. “You’re from the South,” I stated, curiosity sharpening my focus on her.
Mischief offered a smirk, then let out a resigned sigh. “What’s that saying?You can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the girl.” The self-deprecating humor in her expression softened the atmosphere, if only for a moment. “Guess I will have to work harder on my disguise then,” she added, her tone light yet reflective.
I let her joke settle in the silence, searching her expression for any sign of what she was really after. Her cool demeanor remained intact, but there was an undeniable spark in her gaze—a challenge, perhaps, or an invitation. For a moment, the tension in the room eased, replaced by an odd sense of camaraderie forged in danger and self-deprecation.
“So, Mischief,” I said finally, my voice low, “what exactly do you want to do for me?” I kept my posture relaxed but alert, wary of her motives even as curiosity began to outweigh caution. Her answer, I suspected, would change everything.
Mischief’s lips curled into a sly smile, her eyes locked on mine. “I’m here to offer you a golden ticket. A get out of jail free card, if you will.”
Leaning back in my seat, I couldn’t help the smirk that crossed my face. “Let me guess. For a price, right?”
Mischief’s smile widened, her tone knowing. “Everything has value, Mr. Vitale. You know that.” Her gaze sharpened as she continued, “The Devil is playing the long game, Mr. Vitale, and word on the street is, he has his eyes focused on you.”
I kept my expression guarded. “I’m listening.”
Mischief leaned in, her voice low and even. “As you know, the Biker Federation is at war. Lines have been drawn and there is no going back. These next few months are going to rewrite everything, and I fear your family’s past might interfere with my plans, so I’m here to help you.”
