Page 43 of Bellini Bound

“No, you won’t,” my cousin remarked, dropping onto the leather chair opposite the desk.

I elected to remain standing, leaning against the wall with my arms folded across my chest. The lawyer was trembling like a spooked animal, and I wouldn’t put it past him to make a break for it when he realized how truly fucked he was. And he wasn’t leaving this room until we got answers.

“That property is subject to environmental protection. Trying to get approval from the local jurisdiction to build on it is a fool’s errand,” Matteo explained.

Bishop’s brow drew down, a wrinkle forming between them. “I don’t understand.”

Withdrawing the phone from his pocket, Matteo placed it before the attorney. “I want to talk about this.”

Scanning the digital copy of the deed transfer, Bishop lifted his eyes. “Is there a problem? This deal went off without a hitch months ago.”

Matteo huffed out a laugh. “Funny. I only learned about it this afternoon.”

The lawyer blanched. “Wh-what are you talking about? I brokered the sale of that building at your request.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” The challenge hung thick in the air.

“N-no. Of course not. I’m confused, is all.”

“Then that makes two of us.” Matteo reclined, propping one ankle on his opposite knee. “Why don’t you walk me through it, step by step, and let’s see if we can figure out where the disconnect occurred.”

“Yeah. I can do that.” Head bobbing enthusiastically, Bishop tapped rapidly on his keyboard before turning around the computer monitor. “Here you can see the email you sent requesting that I find a buyer for the property in question, citing that you were out of the country and would need all documents sent via certified mail for you to have notarized and returned.”

Matteo leaned forward to scrutinize the email. “Dates line up for when I was abroad this past winter, and it came from my email account, but I didn’t send this or receive any of the following correspondence.” Without asking, he took control of the mouse and scrolled through the rest of the email thread before beckoning me with a curled index finger.

Moving to his side, I saw what he had zeroed in on. An address near the Amalfi Coast in Italy, not very far from where our off-the-books villa was located—the very same one where Matteo had hidden out with Summer and the girls after an attempt was made on their lives.

“Can’t be a coincidence,” I muttered.

Matteo scrubbed a hand over his jaw, heaving a sigh. “Nothing ever is.”

Taking a moment to forward the messages to Nico, in the hope that he could uncover the culprit behind this scheme, my cousin then fixed the attorney with a glare.

“When have we ever done business without discussing it over the phone, at a minimum?”

An audible swallow sounded from Bishop. “Uh, never.”

“That alone should have been enough of a glaring red flag for you to reach out to me directly.”

The fool began to stammer. “Y-you’re a busy man. I d-didn’t want to bother you.”

“Do you know what bothers me?” Matteo asked before answering the rhetorical question. “When my associates have a very, shall we say, uncomfortable run-in with law enforcement while trying to access a warehouse that no longer legally belongs to me.”

“Uncomfortable. That’s putting it mildly,” I grunted, the throbbing in my bicep a reminder that I was overdue to take my painkillers.

Matteo shook his head in disappointment. “Not to mention this deal netted six million dollars, which is unaccounted for. And since you werethe man responsible for orchestrating the transfer of funds, I would say that debt falls to you.”

That was the exact moment the gravity of the situation sank in for Aaron Bishop, and he looked about ready to piss himself.

While we kept our illegal activities under wraps, rumors circulated about our family. And it was widely known that we took debtsveryseriously.

Pretending to pluck a piece of non-existent lint from the sleeve of his suit jacket, Matteo kept his tone casual. “Are you in a position to repay it?”

Bishop’s eyes slammed shut. “I’ve got half, maybe, but it’s not liquid.”

“Hmm. That’s a shame. Perhaps you can borrow the rest from that hot little brunette you’ve been parading around the social scene, who sometimes sits in on our negotiations. What was her name again?”

“Rebecca,” I supplied.