It's easier than accepting that the man who donated to their kid's school fundraiser also ordered someone's fingers broken last Tuesday.
Kristen isn't stupid. She saw signs. The security. The money. The way everyone defers to Pietro. But she convinced herself we were white-collar criminals at worst. Insider trading. Tax evasion. The kind of crime that happens in boardrooms and gets settled with fines.
Not the kind that gets settled with bullets.
"I can't—" Her voice cracks. "I can't be here."
"You can't leave either."
She finally lifts her head. Her eyes are red-rimmed but dry. No tears. That somehow makes it worse. "So I'm a prisoner now?"
"You're being dramatic."
"You just told me the Russian mob wants to collect a hundred and forty thousand dollars from me in thirty days. You told memy ex-husband has been lying to me for years. You told me you're—" She swallows. "You're mafia."
"Italian-American organized crime," I correct, because apparently I have a death wish. "Technically."
"Oh, that's so much better."
There it is. That spark of fight beneath the fear.
I hate that I find it attractive.
I move closer without meaning to. Three steps. Two. Until I'm standing over her crumpled form, looking down at the crown of her head. My hand twitches at my side.
Don't touch her.
"I'm paying the debt."
The words come out flat. Final. The way I deliver orders to soldiers who know better than to argue.
Kristen's head snaps up. "No."
"It's already done." A lie. Pietro approved it, but I haven't made the call yet. "Shell companies. Untraceable. The Bratva gets their money, you get your life back."
"I said no." She scrambles to her feet, swaying slightly. "I won't take your money."
"You don't have a job that pays a hundred and forty thousand dollars in thirty days."
"And you do?"
I almost laugh. "I have access to resources you can't imagine."
"Criminal resources." She spits the word like poison. "Blood money."
"Money is money. It spends the same whether it came from construction contracts or—" I stop myself. No need to elaborate on our other revenue streams. "The point is, I can make this problem disappear."
"By making me owe you instead?" Kristen takes a step toward me. Then another. Her eyes are blazing now, all that feartransforming into something hotter. "By trading one mafia debt for another?"
"We don't charge interest."
"That's not funny."
"I'm not joking."
She's close now. Close enough that I can smell whatever that scent is. It shouldn't affect me. I've been surrounded by women wearing perfume.
None of them smelled this good.
