ARIA

Twelve hours can change everything.

Not long ago, I was still asleep in Nicco's arms, feeling safe, snug, and sore as hell but, dare I say it, well-fucked and unequivocally wanted.

Around 6 am, the alarm goes off, and Nicco drags me into the shower for a quickie before we head off to work.

Two hours later, we arrive in the office. Nicco's called away to an impromptu meeting. I go to my cubicle.

I start digging into everything I could find about Manning and the Gravinski account. Based on the message that Jaime sent me in the hotel, they're both linked to whatever he's hoping to achieve, so I need to know everything there's to know about them in order to trip up his plans.

Since I don't have the security clearance to access the private data and records tied to the Gravinski account, I decided to log in as Nicco. I'm sure he wouldn't mind. From his very first week on the job, Nicco has allowed me to borrow his username and password at Jackson & James. I've been using it to access confidential records to prep for his meetings and reports.

With my eyes glued to my laptop screen, I scroll through the files. At first glance, the Gravinski account appears to be made up of profits deposited from a handful of small businesses. The valuation of its total assets sits at two million pounds. It's a mere drop in the bucket compared to some of the larger portfolios belonging to high-profile clients here at Jackson & James.

Something about it doesn't feel right, though. Hell, nothing about my life feels right at the moment. After last night, everything has been forever transformed between Nicco and me. We've become unbreakable in the sense that, even if fate refuses to grant us a happy ending, he has already made a deep, enduring mark on me. Like a scar. But a beautiful one. It's impossible to go back to the person I was before him. I know Nicco cares for me, so much so that I'm scared to explore the depth of his feelings. I was this fucking close to dropping the L-bomb on him last night.

I love him.

I do.

But I'm not going to be reckless about it. If yesterday night was meant to be a taste of heaven, then I've woken up to the dawning of hell.

Twelve hours.

That's all it takes for paradise to become purgatory now that the demons have come out to play. From here on out, I must proceed with caution.

My gaze returns to the screen. Shit doesn't get interesting until I follow a bureaucratic trail of signatures and approval forms tied to the account activities. Every transaction made its way through several mid-level managers before leading back to Manning. It's Manning who gets the final say on how the revenue can be re-invested into stocks, bonds, and real estate.

Now, a crease furrows my brow.

Why would a high-level manager like Manning go through the trouble of overseeing such a small portfolio?

Before I can connect any more dots between Manning, the Gravinski account, and Jaime, however, I'm interrupted by a polite male voice, "Miss Senarath?"

I glance up from my laptop. It's Nelson, one of the mailroom clerks. "Hey, Nelson. How are you today?"

"Not too shabby. Yourself?"

I chuckle amicably. "Hanging in there."

Nelson laughs, too. "Aren't we all?"

He hands me a few packages. "These are for you."

"Thanks."

He nods graciously. "Of course. Have a good day, Miss Senarath."

"You, too, Nelson," I reply.

When he departs from my cubicle, I think nothing of it. I've received hundreds of deliveries in this manner since I was hired as Nicco's assistant. It isn't until I begin opening and organizing the packages when I realize that something's off.

The source of my unease is caused by the small brown box on my desk. Normally, the deliveries carry Nicco's name or my name, but this label is addressed to Appa.

Rupert Senarath.

Is this some kind of clerical mix-up?

Seems unlikely. Nelson is usually very meticulous about his job. He would never deliver a package to the wrong person, let alone the wrong fucking bank. I take a moment to formulate a sane, logical solution to this problem. I could easily put in a request for Nelson to redeliver this package to J.M. Weiss. Unfortunately, I'm not in a sane, logical mood at the moment.

Curiosity gets the better of me.

Frowning, I reach for the package and use a pair of scissors to slice through the packing tape. Inside this cardboard box, I find something very peculiar: An outdated flip phone with an attached message.

Is this another threat from Jaime?

If so, the fucker is growing ballsier by the second. I can't believe he's starting to send shit to my workplace. I glare at the phone as though it's Jaime. The damn thing appears very much in line with his brand of paranoia. Jaime hates leaving any traces of himself for the authorities to find. He has always preferred using outdated technology to circumvent detection.

Still in its original packaging, the phone itself appears to be brand-new, but the model is decades-old. This artifact from the early 2000's can only send and receive texts and calls. Without data or GPS on the operating system, there's no way anyone can track it, let alone hack it.

Struggling to maintain a neutral expression on my face, I pick up the attached message. Not surprisingly, there's no name signed on the bottom. It's anonymous. But the text inside differs from the one Jaime sent. It's printed by a machine. Not handwritten. My pulse jumps all over the place when I skim the note.

Use this phone to update me on your progress. Don't contact me through any other means regarding the Gravinski account.

A phone number carrying not a UK country code but a US one is also provided.

Does this mean that Jaime is in the States right now?

I freeze as I reread the message once more. For a moment, I can't think. I'm helpless to react as confusion and fear merge into a swarm of buzzing questions in my mind.

1. What does my dad have to do with the Gravinski account?

2. What kind of shady shit is he involved in?

3. Is Appa in danger?

4. Who sent this package to him?

5. Was it Jaime? Manning? Or someone else?

6. Did this package end up in my hands by accident or was the delivery...intentional?

Fuck!

Fuck!

Fuck!

I really need to get ahold of myself. It feels like I'm tumbling down an endless rabbit hole, grasping for answers on my way down. I don't know if I'm ready to chase after the truth. Because I'm 100% certain that I won't like what I find.

***

NICCO

For the past twelve hours, my mind has been moving at breakneck speeds.

Plotting.

Planning.

Preparing for battle.

By 8 am, I have devised a very legitimate reason to lay off two of Manning's minions on the Gravinski account.

Department budget cuts can be such a bitch, no?

Granted, I understand this only severs the tail rather than the head of the viper, but such losses will delay Manning's operations. While he searches for replacements, it should buy me more time to position my pieces on the chessboard.

Beyond the walls of Jackson & James, Monte has been busy—burrowing into Manning's long and winding rabbit hole of a past. Bertie Gallagher's name popped up as a person of interest, and, tonight at 7:30 pm, I have a "meeting" with the bastard. Bertie was an accountant for several of Alvin Beltrán's shell companies. He has since retired, however, with a family to protect, which means he is likely to sing like a canary under pressure, making him an ideal target for our purposes. Bertie is not yet aware of his engagement with me this evening, but I will have Carl's men bring him to me, regardless.

With zip ties on his wrists and ankles.

And a bag over his head.

If necessary.

Over these past few days, I have come to learn a frightening truth about myself. Holier-than-thou, black-and-white choices are a privilege when our way of life is at peace, but, when a crisis arises, survival can only be found in shades of gray. The lines that I am willing to cross to keep mia famiglia and Aria safe from harm blur more and more with each passing hour. My moral compass is dying. Not that I ever really had one.

I am happy to bloody my hands to protect all that I hold dear, and the dirt I require on Manning's network is not going to gather itself. Papà and Mamma did not send me to Jackson & James to fuck around. If something is to be done, I must be the one to do it, which is why, for this initial step, at least, I intend to wade into Manning's merry band of shitheads to wring out the maggots.

Then, if all goes well, and only then will I be able to let my men take over and observe from the shadows.

My parents might frown upon my methods, but I believe my great-grandfather would be rather proud. He was the head of the Graviano clan and one of the most feared mafioso during his reign. Judging by how swiftly my morals fell from grace, it seems Bisnonno's blood runs thicker in my veins than I imagined. The diavolo has awakened inside me, and I am ready to do his bidding.

As I sit at my desk, it is hard to concentrate on answering emails. The glare of my laptop screen hurts my eyes. Passive aggressive phrasing like at your earliest convenience and please advise and per our conversation test my patience. Each message blurs into the next.

Indeed, I cannot seem to stop thinking about Manning or the Beltráns. Yet, they are actually not the ones consuming me. Mostly, it is Aria who has been running through my thoughts. My cock stirs whenever I recall what she let me do to her last night. The way I took her cunt and ass at the same fucking time. The way I spilled myself inside her while she pulsed and contracted around both shafts.

Dio, just thinking about it makes me hard as steel. Heat warms my neck each time I replay her words to me.

My heart feels like it's about to burst.

I am overrun by feelings of lust, possessiveness, and yearning. But, more than anything, a humbling sense of bliss and tenderness rules my heart.

I feel the same way about you.

I know I am a lucky bastard to be on the receiving end of Aria's affections. My pulse pounds faster at the thought of soon being able to introduce her as, not my girl, nor my girlfriend, but as my fiancée.

Fuck me but I think I am in love.

Here, in the office, it is near impossible to treat Aria like my mere assistant when she has become my whole fucking world.

I hate how I must keep my distance from her in front of our colleagues.

I hate that she will not wear her ring until Manning's dinner party.

I hate Stephan and the other assholes in the office for always finding excuses to drop by her cubicle like flies around a honey pot.

Around 10 am, a knock raps at my office door.

"Come in," I grunt.

Aria enters with a perfectly composed expression. The sky could be falling, and, still, my assistant would not break a sweat. She is wearing her hair down today. Just the way I like it. Long, silky strands trail past her shoulders. Not a single hair is out of place. My fingers itch to wind her tresses into my fist for very Not Safe For Work reasons. Her white collared shirt is crisp and tucked neatly into a form-fitting pencil skirt. Stilettos click across the floor as she makes her way toward me.

As always, my girl looks like perfezione.

She leans over my desk to hand over some documents. As Aria nears, I breathe in her perfume, a faint, inviting scent of pear and gardenia, and fight the urge to draw her into my lap. We review some accounting files together, and she preps me for my next meeting. Aria is all business. I behave myself.

Tension thrums between us as we focus on work, work, and more work, but we both pretend like it is nonexistent. I grow more and more frustrated. To act as though this woman is not the air I breathe feels so fucking wrong. Especially after a night like last night.

When we're just about done taking care of business, I hear a humming notification from Aria's phone. She pulls it out to glance at her screen. Her face pales for a second before recovering her composure.

My gaze thins sharply. I demand, "What is wrong?"

***

ARIA

I peer down at my phone.

Unknown Sender: Make sure Vitale approves the contracts for Donovan Baxter's new clients. Manning will help you merge their assets with the Gravinski account. Get it done by the end of the month. Or else.

I look back up at Nicco. He asks me, "What is wrong?"

Fuck.

What do I tell him?