Page 2 of Mob Boss's Second Chance

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The Cross mansion is bigger than anything I’ve ever seen—not that I’ve seen that many extremely lavish places—and I’m ushered in through a gate after identification.

The drive to the main house takes ten minutes. The road is flanked by tall, decorative trees on both sides, with the occasional unpleasant-looking statues. When I get to the house, a valet directs me to a parking space and collects my key.

Another person walks up to me, wearing a uniform. “Welcome, Miss Monroe,” he says with a measured smile. “I’ll be taking you to where you’ll set up.”

Huh, I purse my lips. I see.

“Thank you,” I say.

He bows slightly and escorts me to the back of the house, where sectioned gardens and more sculptures hang around. I’m led even further, through a second gate, into a spacious yard.

“Mr. Cross said to set you up there,” the man points to a canopy. “He said a team will be down to assist you in a couple of minutes, but if you need anything, you can find me through the gate.”

“Thank you,” I say again, offering him a grateful smile.

He nods, and I’m left alone.

I waste no time getting set up under the canopy, pulling one of the stacked chairs to the table. I take out my notebook and the event schedule to compare notes I made last night.

One thing that stood out to me when I got the job—which came through a referral—was how vague the event details were. I was told itwas to be an intimate yet lavish party with an unlimited budget, but beyond that, the client didn’t provide any specific requests.

Unlike my usual clients, Mr. Cross had no preferences regarding the theme, color palette, catering, entertainment, or even personalized touches. It was almost unsettling how little guidance I was given.

The only concrete detail was the number of guests—an impressively small number considering the extravagance implied by the budget.

“Oh well,” I shrug. “It gives me more to work with.” And also much to live up to.

Regardless, I get to work, drawing inspiration based on the venue to make corrections to the suggestions in my notebook. I’m completely engrossed, my pen moving quickly as I sketch out ideas that I don’t hear the soft sound of footsteps approaching.

The firm scent of sandalwood iswhathits me first. It’s rich and unmistakable, cutting through the faint aroma of paper and ink. It’s the kind of scent that demands attention—grounded, sophisticated, and undeniably masculine.

It pulls me out of my thoughts, my pen pausing mid-stroke as the shadow on my notebook grows more distinct.

Slowly, I look up, ready to introduce myself, but I stop short, brought to silence by his presence.

Standing before me is a man—tall, broad-shouldered, and effortlessly handsome. His tailored suit fits perfectly, the sharp cut emphasizing his strong build.

Dark eyes framed by thick lashes meet mine with an intensity that makes my pulse falter. His jawline is sharp, and the slight stubble adds an edge of ruggedness to his polished appearance.

For a moment, I forget what I was doing and what I was going to say. His sheer presence, coupled with his intoxicating scent, is enough to leave me momentarily disoriented.

But I have no problem identifying who he is.

Ethan Cross.

His lips curl into a distasteful frown as he stares at me. “Who are you?”

Me?Me? I struggle for a moment to process the question before the light bulb comes on in my head.

“Oh—oh,” I stutter lightly, stretching out my hand with a smile to cover up the awkwardness. “I’m Natalie Monroe, the event planner. Mr. Cross hired me.”

“I did no such thing,” he responds curtly, already looking towards the gate. I can feel the iciness radiating from him, and it reaches towards me, stealing the warmth from my body. I refrain from rubbing my arms to get some circulation going again. “How did you get through security?”

How? My brows furrow in confusion. Then it hits me.

“No,” I shake my head hastily, “not you. Your cousin. Mr. Anthony Cross. He hired me. Some guy asked me to wait here for the crew.”

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