Chapter 2 - THE TERMS|
The silence inside the boardroom felt heavy enough to bruise.
Beatrice did not blink. “You’re blackmaling your own forensic accountant to go to a wedding?”
“I’m offering a transaction,” Arthur corrected smoothly, leaning his hip against the edge of the polished desk. “Blackmail implies I created the threat. Your brother created it when he thought he could run illegal card games on O’Malley territory using Costello money as collateral.”
Beatrice swallowed, her throat tight. She had spent two years keeping her family entirely separate from her professional life at Carmichael Logistics. She knew Arthur Costello was the head of the city’s most formidable syndicate, but inside this office, he had always been a precise, demanding boss who paid top dollar for clean numbers.
Now, the wolf was stepping out from behind the desk.
“Sixty thousand,” she whispered. “Tommy told me it was ten.”
“Tommy lied to you,” Arthur said flatly. “O’Malley’s men were planning to collect from him at his apartment on Monday morning. They weren’t planning to leave him with the use of his legs.”
Beatrice closed her eyes for three seconds, taking a slow, steadying breath. When she opened them, her eyes were sharp with pure tactical calculation.
“If I agree,” she said, her voice dropping an octave, “I want it in writing. Not a corporate voucher. A signed receipt from O’Malley’s commander stating Tommy’s debt is canceled in full, delivered to my desk before I get into your car on Saturday.”
A faint shadow of approval crossed Arthur’s harsh features. “Done.”
“Second,” she continued, pointing a finger at his chest, “I wear what I want. I don’t wear silk pastels, I don’t wear diamonds on loan, and I don't pretend to be your meek little secretary.”
“I wouldn’t pay sixty thousand dollars for meek, Miss Gallagher.”
“And third,” she added, stepping closer until she was barely two feet from him, smelling his dark cedar cologne, “after midnight on Saturday, we return strictly to debit and credit. You don’t look at me like I’m something you bought.”
Arthur met her gaze without flinching. His gray eyes held a strange, simmering intensity that made her skin prickle.
“I don’t buy women, Beatrice,” he said softly. “I employ them. And sometimes, I negotiate with them.”
“Is this a negotiation?”
“No,” Arthur said, standing straight and towering over her. “This is a deal. Do we have an agreement?”
May you like
Beatrice looked down at her ink-stained fingers, then back at the head of the Costello syndicate.
“Get me that receipt,” she said quietly. “And I’ll wear the dress.”
