Semua Bab The Lie I Signed With The Mafia Ceo: Bab 1 - Bab 10

Adeline’s POV “I'm definitely going to get arrested for this.” I mutter it under my breath as I approach a Mercedes G-Class, phone raised. October sunlight hits the glossy black paint, the car glowing against the gray Manhattan sidewalk, screaming money I'll never have. Perfect. The internet loves rich girls. I'm just borrowing the illusion. My last reel barely reached two hundred views. So much for my grand plan to escape poverty by becoming a content creator overnight. Grad school doesn't pay for itself, and my two part-time jobs barely leave me enough time to sleep. So I fake it. Good lighting is free. Wealthy neighborhoods are free. Looking like I belong for twenty seconds? Also free. And who says no to free stuff? Certainly not me. Today's luxury collection consists of an oversized cream sweater hanging off my shoulders, twelve dollars at a Brooklyn thrift store. Jeans with a hole in the knee I didn't pay extra for. “It's vintage, darling,” the trader said. I was gullible

Adeline's POV Matteo's address leads me to a narrow steel door squeezed between an art gallery and a private bank. No sign. No display window. Just polished metal and an intercom that probably costs more than everything in my apartment put together. My thumb hovers over the buzzer. One minute. Two. By the fifth, I've already imagined leaving at least twenty different times. A woman in head-to-toe Chanel glides past without glancing at me, which is the most New York interaction I've had all week, her heels clicking against the pavement with that assurance of people who have nothing to prove. I look down at my jeans. Yesterday the ripped knee looked effortlessly vintage. Standing here, it just looks like I couldn't afford a pair without holes. My vest has a loose thread at the hem. I tug it and the thread gets longer and longer. A frustrated sigh slips out before I finally rip it off. The steel door throws my reflection back at me. Ginger hair that clearly lost a fight with my hairb

Albert's POV ★The Metropolitan Gala★ Noise fills the hall as guests dressed in high-end silks and tailored suits move through the main gallery, champagne glasses balanced in their hands. Near the Temple of Dendur, a string quartet tunes their instruments, notes rising and falling beneath the conversations. Everything is where it should be. I hold a champagne flute without drinking from it, rotating the stem between my fingers while a man beside me explains an investment I've already rejected twice. “Rossi, you haven't given your say on the port exchange.” Anderson's eldest son smiles as though persistence makes him intelligent. “It's a really good deal to invest in.” “Yes,” another man quickly adds. I glance at him and recognize Mr. Anderson, a potbelly straining against his tuxedo while one hand holds a champagne glass and the other rests possessively around the waist of a young woman who looks barely interested in being there. “It's an excellent investment,” he continues. “I a

Adeline's POV Sunlight cuts through my cheap blinds and lands directly in my eyes. I throw an arm over my face. My feet protest the moment I try to stretch, still paying for those heels. I lift my head, noticing the mascara stains on the pillow. Whatever. Future Adeline can deal with that. Current Adeline has suffered enough. The blue slip I changed into at 4 AM has twisted around my legs. I kick the sheets off. In this shoebox nothing travels far, my bed meeting my kitchenette, my kitchenette meeting my closet, my closet door hanging open because there's nowhere else to put it. Real estate agents might call it efficient use of space. I call it being able to reach the fridge without getting out of bed. And hanging right there is the dress. It sways faintly, daring me to pretend last night didn't happen. Afternoon sun catches the silk and for a moment my whole apartment contracts around it. My phone vibrates again on the bedside table, going since midnight. I reach for it and stare

Albert's POV The office goes quiet when I walk in. Not because anyone was speaking loudly, but because Rossi International has never needed a sign telling people to lower their voices when I enter a room. Conversations shorten mid-sentence. Phones disappear into palms as if they were never out. Matteo stops halfway through whatever he's telling one of the legal directors and steps aside without finishing the thought. I keep walking. Black gloves cover my hands. The leather keeps fingerprints off documents, off glass, off anything I don't want traced back to me later, and more than that, they give my hands something to occupy themselves with on a day that's already given me enough reasons to use them. "Morning, sir." Matteo falls into step beside me as we reach the elevator. "Morning." The doors close and he keeps talking, rattling through the day as if he's been rehearsing the order since dawn. "The Henderson contracts came back from London. Legal wants your approval by noon. Ve