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“These people handle my publicity,” Paulo explained, still watching her. “When we launch a new product or manage an issue, they adjust the message accordingly. We need the right people to hear about Ronan Keane’s funeral. It’s happening in less than three days.” His gaze burned into her, as though the world narrowed until it was only them. “What does your father care about? What are his habits? Every detail matters.”

For a moment she froze, caught not just by the enormity of the task, but by the weight of his faith in her. After all that had passed between them, after the betrayal that still scraped raw, he was still looking at her like she was the only person in the room who mattered.

Her lips parted as she scrambled to come up with something, anything, that would work. Finally, something occurred to her. “He likes to gamble,” she began slowly. With those words, the dam inside her seemed to break and the ideas started to flow. Leaning forward, she looked at the people around the table, busily scribbling words in their notebooks. So, she continued. “But only at the private tables.” Several people asked questions and Madelaine answered them carefully. “He loves fish and chips, though he hides his cravings from his men. Says it’s too British.” There were some confused frowns and Madelaine realized that Americans might not understand. “He’s Irish. Liking anything British feels like a minor act of treason to him.” There was some laughter as they nodded, taking note of the fact. Madelaine continued, “At home, he shows off with Irish food.” She turned to Paulo. “That’s why I gave you the list of his favorites.”

Paulo withdrew the folded list she’d written yesterday, passing it smoothly to Jennifer. When he pulled his arm back, his fingers brushed the top of her hand. Deliberate? Madelaine couldn’t tell, but her pulse spiked and she blinked at him.

“This is good,” Jennifer said briskly. “Mindy,” she handed the list to a woman on her other side, “every item listed goes on the menu for the wake.”

Madelaine wrinkled her nose thoughtfully, “He prefers Jameson whiskey. And Smithwick’s Irish ale. Though honestly, the brand doesn’t matter all that much. As long as it’s Irish, he’ll drink it.”

Questions came rapidly after that. At first, she stumbled over the details. Then she surprised herself with what she remembered. Small quirks, preferences she’d stored away unconsciously.

An hour later, her head throbbed with the effort. She sagged back in her chair, realizing she hadn’t worked this hard to concentrate in years.

But even through the exhaustion, she was aware of him. Paulo hadn’t interrupted once, hadn’t distracted her, hadn’t so much as shifted his gaze from her for long. When she faltered, he leaned closer, brushing her elbow with his sleeve, murmuring quiet encouragement only she could hear.

It was astonishing to see him like this. Not the mafia leader the world whispered about, but a man who commanded an empire of legitimate power. Sharp. Strategic. Relentless. She noticed him watching her lips as she spoke, the curve of her wrist as she gestured, and it felt like the sparks between them must be plainly visible to the rest of the room.

She wasn’t sure what shocked her more: the intensity of his control over this room, or the intensity of his focus on her.

The meeting finally ended, chairs rolling back on silent casters as people filed out of the conference room. But before Paulo could move, others slipped in with eager, deferential faces, folders in hand, questions already on their lips. These people weren’t here for another meeting. They simply needed guidance from Paulo on several issues.

Madelaine braced herself for his temper, but it never came. He wasn’t impatient. He didn’t snap. With each question, he listened, clarified his previous instructions or adjusted the plan. His voice remained calm and steady, the very definition of control.

She caught words here and there such as “derivatives,” “SOFR rates”, or obscure terms she’d heard before, but never cared to decode. What she was starting to understand was just how big Paulo’s empire really was. Paulo’s business interests weren’t confined to Detroit. This wasn’t some shadowy crime boss operating from the back of a smoky bar. This was global. Complex. Legitimate.

Her father could never have reached this level of success. He was a thug in a shiny suit, chasing cheap thrills and easy wins, his brain wired for greed and pleasure, but not strategy. Watching Paulo now made the comparison laughable.

She kept quiet, watching as he commanded the room. His sharp intelligence, the certainty in his tone, the way others seemed to orbit around him. It was mesmerizing. A little terrifying. And undeniably hot!

And then there was his hand.

Warm, steady, resting against the small of her back as though anchoring her. His thumb traced slow circles whenever she moved, each stroke a distraction that made her concentration wobble. To anyone else, it was nothing. But to her, it felt like an intimate apology, a wordless reminder that he hadn’t forgotten she was there.

What he didn’t know was how much it undid her. Watching him in this light, seeing the ruthless precision and quiet power while still acknowledging her presence… her pulse skittered. She wanted to shove the others out of the room, slam the door, and climb him like a tree.

That damn circling thumb wasn’t helping.

She sighed softly, a sound that slipped out without permission.

Immediately, Paulo cut the conversation off with a flick of his hand. “That’s enough. Madelaine and I have another meeting across town. Send me an email or go through my assistant. I’ll make the final call once I review the numbers.”

“Yes, sir,” several people replied before giving her a polite nod and departing.

“Sorry about that,” Paulo muttered as he guided her out of the room. His hand didn’t leave her back, firm and proprietary as the guards surrounded them, escorting them into the elevator.

“Not a problem,” she admitted, surprised by her own honesty. “It was… fascinating.”

She felt the weight of his gaze, hot and searching, but kept her eyes on the blinking floor lights even as her heart began to race.

When the elevator chimed and the doors opened, the air changed. The quiet hum of business was gone, replaced by the low rumble of engines waiting in the garage. Black SUVs idled in perfect formation, polished and menacing.

“What’s your next appointment?” she asked lightly, trying to sound unaffected.

“It’s our appointment,” Paulo corrected. His eyes caught hers, dark and intent. “Yours, specifically.”

She swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry.