Page 32 of Mob Boss's Second Chance

“What,” I scoff, the sound heavy with unbelief. “What was that? What was I supposed to do with that?”

It doesn’t matter if he wants me here?

The decision is not his to make? I asked a simple question and got a vague response. Talking to Ethan is like going to a fortune teller and asking a direct question only to get a parable in return.

“That was my mistake,” I mutter as my hands clench by my side. I could’ve allowed him to take the apples and kept my mouth shut.

Blowing out a huff of air, I stride over to where I unloaded the bag of food ingredients for the day, forcing my hands to keep from carrying out my anger on the items.

I learned my lesson, though—never engage Ethan Cross in anything. If I hadn’t figured it out when I walked into his room, I should’ve known when he said nothing as I exited his car, still trying to fix my dress.

I should quit.

“No,” I push the thought away with vehemence. I’m not going to quit because the other Cross cousin is an outright asshole.

Rather, I’ll pretend like he doesn’t exist and continue working for Anthony.

How hard can it be?

Chapter Ten

Ethan

“Mr. Cross,” Perpetual, my secretary, pulls my attention from the virtual meeting as she walks into my office. “There’s someone here to see you. He’s from the prosecutor’s office.”

Prosecutor?

My eyebrows furrow in a puzzled expression because I don’t remember having any dealings on that end. Concluding that it probably has something to do with Anthony—and sighing, I gesture for her to let him in.

Seconds later, a man walks in wearing a cheap suit with his hair slicked into two parts. I can smell the grease from his hair products as he approaches my desk. The smile plastered on his face does nothing to make me feel more receptive towards his presence.

“Mr. Cross,” he says, holding his briefcase in front of his body.

“You have something for me?” I question, going straight to the point. “Is it Anthony?”

“Your cousin?” He shakes his head. “No. This is regarding your affairs, Mr. Cross,” he explains, pulling back a chair and sitting without invitation. Irritation lodges at the base of my throat, but I dismiss it.

His response sparks curiosity, although it comes with a very short rope. “What about my affairs?” I ask curtly, keeping the warmth out of my tone so he knows I’m not interested in anything other than facts.

I arch a brow, and an uneasy feeling creeps up my throat, settling with a heavy, suspicious weight. I watch as he opens his briefcase and slides a document across the table. Judging the content by the cover, I hesitate for a moment before placing my hand on it.

I don’t open, though. In my line of business, I’ve learned that the slightest change in body language or facial expression is enough to give the enemy an edge over you.

If there’s something in there—something worth reacting to—I want to read it in private.

“I don’t have time to waste…” I leave the rest unsaid, fixing him with a pointed look.

He clears his throat. “Geller,” he supplies. “Joe Geller.”

Right.And Joe Geller just became a person of interest.

I point to the document. “What is in here, Mr. Geller?”

His sharp gaze never wavers as I rest my hand on the document, my fingers brushing its edge. “Everything you need to know is there,” he says smoothly, though there’s an edge in his voice. “Every questionable transaction, every irregularity, every signature—or lack thereof.”

I lift an eyebrow, my tone cold. “You came here to show me an accounting error?”

Geller places both hands on my desk, leaning in just enough to test the boundary between confidence and arrogance. “I came hereto tell you someone’s been siphoning funds from your club, Luna Royale, into untraceable offshore accounts, and those accounts have been traced to illegal operations.”

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