2

Stefano's Perspective:

The front door clicked open, and I pulled it ajar, blocking the entrance. "Tara."

"Stefano", she greeted, "you should show up when your father asks to see you."

"You shouldn't, though," I retorted, holding my ground in the doorway. "It's nine in the morning; it's only been a few hours since I got back to New York."

"It's been long enough. Your father wants to see you; he's been asking since you landed."

"Right... What was it, at four in the morning?"

She sighed, giving me a pointed look. "Stefano."

"Tara", I responded blankly, maintaining eye contact.

"Just do as I say, all right?"

"And why should I do that?"

"Mother's benefit," she shrugged.

I raised a brow. "Good thing you're not my mother."

"I'm your father's wife. Step-mother benefit," she smiled, reaching up to pat my cheek. "You've been gone for nearly eight months, and now you're back. At the end of the day, he's your father; come see him. Hmm?"

My jaw ticked as I continued to stare at her. "Fine. I'll drop by his little party tonight," I reluctantly agreed.

"Looks like you still listen to me after all," she mused. 

"You may not be my mother, but you did raise me." I stepped aside and held the door open. "Come on in." 

"It's nice of you to finally invite me inside, but I said what I came to say, kid. Dress nicely. The party's not so little."

 "Of course," I exhaled, nodding once, suppressing my annoyance. 

She walked back to the elevator at the other end of the hall, and I shut the front doors to the penthouse, hearing the digital lock click in place with a beep once again. 

I've hardly been back in New York for five hours, and I already want to leave. 

This was exactly why I spent most of my time in Brașov rather than New York. Away from social obligations, away from social gatherings and parties, and most importantly, away from my father. I flipped the coffee machine on and dropped a shot of espresso in it, pressing the buttons for the largest size before placing a cup underneath and moving to my bedroom, grabbing my phone off the nightstand and dialling a number very well known to me. 

"Hello?" A familiar voice answered. 

"I'm in New York," I announced, pulling open the doors to the walk-in closet and placing my phone on speaker, on top of the Chester table as I searched for a suit for tonight. 

"How long are you staying this time?" 

"I don't know, Mason. Depends on how much you've missed me," I sighed, grabbing a suit and tie. 

He scoffed in response. 

"Are you coming tonight?" I asked. 

"No. Your dad's little party has nothing to do with me." 

"Really? I heard you're the agent he used to buy that hotel, though." 

"And my work there is done. Beyond that, your father should cease to forget a man named Mason Castro exists. Not just him but anyone else involved... isn't that right, Stefano?" 

"What do you want me to do? Kill the man they caught eavesdropping, pretending to be building security?" 

"I wouldn't know, Stefano. This is way out of my league, and I'd like to keep it that way, please. Whatever you deem best." 

"If I'm your criminal agent in all this, I'm unaware of it. And not getting paid at all, apparently." 

"Have fun hosting with your father. I'm sure everyone will give you a nice warm welcome," he snickered, "even the people who just got out of prison after your last visit." 

"Goodbye, Mason," I ground out, taking my phone and heading back to the kitchen downstairs to get my coffee. By the time I was finished with that little cup of espresso, a reminder for today's brunch was going off on my phone. 

After a quick shower and change of clothes, I was out the door, heading straight to Nova, a restaurant infamous to New York's corrupted underworld society. People had most meetings there, if not as someone's residence. Not to mention, a lot of women loved to host their lunches at Nova. 

As I parked my car and got out, adjusting the black suit and unbuttoning it, I recognised a few women, mainly wives of the men I had worked with or against in the past, exiting the restaurant after brunch. Once I was inside, I headed straight to the table my reservation was confirmed for: a table secluded and towards the curtained half of the restaurant at the back. 

Change was constant and uncomfortable, but after a certain point, you learnt to feel comfortable in discomfort too. Staying in New York, no matter how long it was, was always that way. Bothersome, exhausting, and frustrating. With one too many rules to follow and people preaching things they never believed in, my job was turned into some advocacy for justice in our twisted world. 

I was no angel of justice; in fact, the words made me scoff. Being a lawyer and criminal agent for the corrupt shaped me into being anything but ethical and moral; I was all fifty shades of immoral from the inside out. I was in no world of bringing justice, merely in the business of law. Law was a business as much as any other—it was money, and that was all I needed. 

"Sorry, I'm late." 

I lifted my gaze from my phone, and my eyes met my father's. I nodded to the empty seat before me. "Take a seat." 

He cleared his throat, taking a look around. "Welcome back to New York, Stefano," he said. 

"It's never a pleasure," I replied, going back to sorting my emails. "What can I do for you?" 

"I couldn't get a hold of you since your last visit." 

"I was working. I doubt that you had to send Tara to tell me you need me there tonight." 

"You listen to her more than you do me. How was Romania this time around?" 

"Work was fine, if that's what you're asking," I answered without looking at him. 

"Do tell." 

I met his gaze and lifted a brow, tilting my head to one side as my thumb traced my jaw. "Confidentiality is the key to staying alive when you do what I do, Dad. You understand that, don't you?" 

He stared at me for a beat and then sighed in defeat. "Fair enough. Keep your mysteries to yourself, if that's what you want." 

"It's my job." 

"If you say so." 

I ignored the way he tried to get on my nerves and called a waiter over, lifting my hand. 

"Two menus," my father ordered. 

I glanced at him and then at the waiter as the kid nodded in understanding, "I'll be right back with those, sir." He smiled before going back to grab them. 

"You called me back to New York this time; I'm sure it's not just for a party you're hosting," I said, putting my phone screen down on the table. "What do you want?" 

"For starters, I want to see my son more than a few times a year," he scoffed. 

I shook my head. "That can't happen. I have work to do. What is it that you need?" 

He paused and took a look around before clearing his throat and leaning forward. "I—" 

"Sir, your two menus." 

An annoyed sigh escaped my father as he glared at the kid and then took the menu wordlessly. 

"Thanks," I said to the waiter, "we'll let you know when we're ready to order." 

"Sure thing, sir." 

"Your patience still wears thin," I noted, opening the menu and reading through it. 

"I called you for a friend." 

I bit back a scoff. "I'm surprised you still have some of those." 

"Stefano." 

I continued flipping through the menu. 

"It's serious." 

I paused, tracing the edge of the page with my finger. "I'm listening." 

"Diego Deluca—" 

"Tech company CEO", I added, "someone's stealing money from him, and the people he owes are starting to come after him after a year of him dodging payments... isn't that right?" 

He blinked in surprise. 

"I keep tabs on your friends since they tend to need my help so often," I clarified. "Why does he need my help?" 

"That's for him to tell you." 

"Sounds a bit boring," I replied, shaking my head. 

"He's willing to pay you fifteen million." 

I watched in amusement. "And is that where his negotiation starts or ends?" 

"Starts," he responded, lifting his brows. 

"I need to meet the man. No deal if you'll play mediator like this." 

"I'm just the messenger. He'll be there tonight." 

"Then you can tell him to find me there. The fried rice and chilli chicken look good, don't they?" 

"What?" He blinked in confusion as I gestured to the waiter again. I placed my order and handed him the menu before my father hesitantly did the same. 

"Khan!" My eyes drifted over to a familiar voice before I spotted a woman standing at a table, her back facing me while a little kid sprinted over to her, blond curls bouncing over his eyes as he grinned and giggled giddily before clutching onto her legs and jumping in place, peering up at her. 

"Oh, there's Shirley," Dad mumbled, nodding towards the woman who trailed behind that boy, her blonde hair matching her son's as it was pulled back into a bun. 

Looking back at the woman I couldn't see, I now had a pretty good idea of who she was. 

And I know damn well I want nothing to do with her.