Page 18 of Ms. Fortune

“It’s okay.” I don’t know why I’m trying to make him feel better, but the sadness in his eyes and voice is too much for me to handle. Just as he shielded me on the way out of the restaurant, I have the urge to protect him from whatever is upsetting him. It’s inexplicable, but it’s there. Recognizing it, though, I stop myself.

During our so-called ‘negotiations,’ he had mentioned the press. He knew they would be a factor and upend my life like this. He even stated he thought they could handle the pacing. He’s known the paparazzi would be after me but didn’t warn me. Maybe I should have figured that much out myself, but he planned for them to be involved in the first place. It’s only fair he let me in on the consequences of all this. I knew they’d be involved somehow, that’s kind of the point of this arrangement, but it’s already starting out a little insane. This is only a reputation bump for both of us anyway, right? That’s all this is?

Before I can think any more of it, we’re at my dad’s house, and a small group of photographers is camped out on the sidewalk. Luckily, my father’s house is older and set back from the road, with a gate. It’s not the most modern of homes, in fact, it’s very much stuck in the ‘70s, but it is reasonably private.

“Fuck,” Brandon mutters.

The remote for my gate is in my car, so Bianca pulls up to the keypad, and I give her the code to enter. Once we arrive at the back of the house, Randall jumps out and blocks any sliver of a view the photographers might have from the street. Brandon exits and does the same. I take a deep breath and dash for my back door, pretty sure no one can see me from the street.

Brandon tries to grab my hand as I pass him, but I slide out of his grasp and enter the house without a glance back. Once inside, I lean back against the door, breathing heavily. I feel like I just ran through a shooting range and somehow dodged every single bullet. Before I can get too comfortable, my phone rings. It’s Brandon.

“Close the blinds on your front windows.”

“Shit.” I hang up and make my way to the front of the house, trying to stay out of view while I move, which is near impossible. I eventually get all the blinds in the house closed, not just the ones facing the street. Even though I can’t see the photographers outside, I know they’re there. The sensation of being watched or under surveillance is so unnerving I jump at every little sound in the house. I get ready for bed quickly and lie there, staring at the ceiling, knowing I’ll never find sleep tonight with people right outside.

I did not sign up for this. Did I?

Chapter 13

STOP THE WORLD I WANNA GET OFF WITH YOU

BRANDON

As Bianca drives up to my gate and speaks to the guard on the intercom, I ignore the flock of press gathering around the car. Randall jumps out and joins the other security guards, who quickly swarm in and move everyone away from us so we can drive through. Bianca’s driven for me before, so she’s used to the circus that can sometimes wait for me when I get home. However, tonight seems particularly crazy.

Pulling into the side portico of the estate, Bianca lowers the divider between us and stares at me in the mirror; her expression is apprehensive but also conveys a warning. I know what that look is. It’s a ‘don’t fuck with Normandy, or else’ look. I get it. She’s been with Mischief Motors for several years and was fiercely loyal to Victor. She must know the last thing I want is to hurt Normandy. I meet her gaze and nod my understanding before stepping out of the car and into the house.

Once inside, I head straight for my office. Taylor meets me in the hallway and walks with me. I check my watch briefly; it’s just after nine here, meaning it's after midnight in New York. While my employees are used to working odd hours should the need arise, and they’re paid handsomely for it, I don’t like bothering anyone this late or when they should be off the clock. However, I know Maggie will want to discuss the press issue as soon as possible.

“I sent you a preliminary report on Louie Calnetta, but I’m diving deeper to be thorough.”

That makes me chuckle. Taylor is nothing if not thorough. He’s at least learned to give me preliminary information when he used to take forever while he double and triple-checked everything. You can take a soldier out of the Marines, but you can’t wholly take the Marines out of the soldier.

“Sounds good. Anything I need to know now?” I sense there’s more he wants to say, but he’s hesitating. “Even if it’s preliminary?”

“He might be…connected.”

I’m not following. I’m getting very tired, and the neurons in my brain aren’t firing on all cylinders. “Connected to what? To the paparazzi showing up tonight? How could that be possible?”

“No, sir. Connected, as in…connected.” He waits for a beat for me to catch on but continues when I don’t. “To organized crime, sir.”

“The mob?” I laugh and turn to him outside my office door. “You’re telling me the mob is still a thing? In Vegas? How cliché can you be? Are you being serious?”

“Very serious, sir.” And the ferocious gleam in his eyes tells me he’s not kidding around.

I enter my office, rounding my desk, trying to digest the fact that the mafia is apparently really still a thing and not just in the movies. My first concern is automatically Normandy. I fall heavily into my desk chair, buckling under the weight of the evening’s events.

“What does he want with Normandy Blake? Any ideas?”

“From what I’ve gathered so far, Calnetta’s been after Mischief Motors for years, though I don’t have details or specifics yet. I assume he’s playing the same game with Ms. Blake.”

I study him carefully, wondering if he’s thinking the same thing I am. “In light of this, are we absolutely sure about Victor’s cause of death?” I can’t believe I’m asking that, but tonight is full of insanity.

Taylor shifts a little and clears his throat. “I’ve made some inquiries with the medical examiner, but I don’t have a relationship there yet. I’ll keep pushing.”

“Ok, good. Let me know what you can find out.”

He leaves, and I jump out of my chair and start pacing at once. Something about the whole Louie Calnetta situation isn’t sitting right with me, and I can’t pinpoint what it is. My mind is itching as though I could think hard enough to figure it out; the answer’s right in front of me, but that’s not possible. It’s frustrating as fuck. I do not like feeling like this. I know things are in motion, but I still feel helpless. I do not do helpless.

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