I lean in closer, my eyes on the crowd. “Remember what I told you in your room a while ago?”
“Not at the moment,” she pants.
“I won’t let anyone touch you.”
Her eyes snap back to me. “Promise?”
I look back at her. Something in me stirs—sharp, sudden, and completely unpredictable. I don’t know what the hell it is. I just know I mean it.
“I promise.”
“Your table is ready. Mr. Anderson is waiting for you,” the waitress says, waiting for us to follow her.
We stroll behind her as she leads us toward the VIP area. Then I spot someone near the entrance—someone I recognize.
Michael?
His brows pinch in confusion, but he doesn’t move—like a soldier waiting for orders.
As we get closer to the table, some fucker—probably her date—stands up and wipes his shit-face with a white towel.
Is that …
Leo fucking Anderson?
“There you are, my dear,” he exclaims with a wide smile.
My God, he’s old. His wrinkles are carved deep. His hair is all silver, slicked back with unnatural precision, and his gray suit clings to him like it’s been worn by many before. It’s rich but stale.
Why would my father want me to meet this man? Why would he want me instead of my father? This doesn’t feel like business.
As he walks closer to me, I don’t speak. Hell, I’m speechless. But I feel Adam’s arm tense beneath my hand, tighter than before—maybe tighter than ever.
“I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you,” he says, nesting my hand into his wrinkled palms. “I am Leo Anderson.”
Next to him are two bodyguards, standing there like soldiers. I didn’t even notice them before, but I guess that’s the point. One is a man, lean and solemn, eyes dead and disciplined. The other is a woman. She seems cold and strong as hell. Her long, black hair is slicked back into a high ponytail. Red lipstick, tight black leather showing off her toned butt and thighs.
“Uhm,” I barely mumble, my eyes darting everywhere but him.
“Come, sit.” He gestures to the table he was sitting at. “Let me take a good look at the treasure your father’s been hiding.”
Cazzo …Fuck …
Nothing about it feels normal. It feels like a transaction.
After a few seconds of resisting, I force a step forward, only to feel Adam’s body stiff and unmoving, rooted to the floor, almost dragging me back. His eyes narrow on the man like a predator sensing something unusual. I bet he’s right.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper.
His jaw twitches, but he says nothing. He walks to the table, pulls out my chair, and waits. It’s mechanical and practiced. Maybe it’s just part of the job. Still, he does it too well. Too smooth and princely. I look at him for a second longer before I take a seat. He seems off. Consumed by something I can’t reach.
Eventually, I sit anyway, pretending everything is okay while Adam folds his hands in front of him and stands beside me.
The waitress clears his plate without a word, and another waiter steps in with a bottle of red wine.
“You’re late,” Leo says, leaning back in the chair, one leg resting over the other.
“Traffic,” I mumble.
