I nod, walking inside, surprised at the sparseness of the reception area.
"Can I help you?" the receptionist asks.
"I'm here to see Saint Marini."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"I'm his wife."
Her eyes widen, and she nearly jumps out of her seat. "Oh. Oh! Mrs. Marini. I'll—let me just—" She picks up the phone, presses a button. "Mr. Marini? Your wife is here to see you."
A pause. I can't hear his response, but her face says it's not enthusiastic.
I smirk. Good. Saint married me, locked me in a tower, and enjoyed his life like nothing changed. Fucker is going to find out that I’m not that easy to escape.
"Yes, sir." She hangs up. "He'll see you. Third floor, office at the end of the hall."
I focus on the space to calm my nerves. The hallway is industrial—concrete floors, exposed pipes—very different from the Nero offices I grew up visiting. There is no warmth, and if I were to draw an example of a mafia business front, this would be it. Cold, sterile, non-descript.
It practically screams “We launder money.”
But as I knock on Saint’s office door, a courtesy he doesn’t really deserve, I decide to keep my thoughts to myself. I’m hereto negotiate. I can’t do that if Saint and I are at one another’s throats.
"Come in."
He's behind a desk, laptop open, phone to his ear. He glances at me, raises an eyebrow, then continues his conversation as though I'm not even there.
I cross my arms and glare at him, wishing I had the ability to blow his brain up with my mind. I think about it for a moment—the blood and gore painting my dress. The look of surprise that would cross his face a split second before his life is ended.
I shake the thought away slightly scared by them.
"I don't care what the union rep says. We move the shipment tonight or we don't move it at all." Pause. "Then deal with it. That's what I pay you for."
He hangs up, slamming the phone down hard enough to break. But his anger is gone quickly, and he leans back in his chair and studies me, a bored expression on his face.
"This is unexpected."
"May I sit?"
He gestures to the chair across from him. I sit, crossing my legs, trying to project more confidence than I feel. If he looks too closely, he'd notice my bitten thumbnail and picked cuticle.
"You've never come here," he observes. "Special occasion?"
"I have a proposition."
It's best to get right to the point. I sat at Bianca's feet when she negotiated deals, and she liked a straightforward approach. She manipulated people on the backend, after they underestimated her.
It proved an effective strategy.
His mouth quirks. Almost a smile, but he says nothing, and I feel myself getting anxious.
"I want to make a deal.”
"I'm listening." He's mocking me, and he's not even trying to hide it.
"I know every aspect of Adrian's security protocols. His schedules. His routines. His vulnerabilities. I helped Bianca design some of them." I shrug. "Well, most of them."
Saint's expression shifts. Just slightly, but I notice a spark of interest replacing the amusement. Just barely. He's not bought in.
