All Chapters of The Lie I Signed With The Mafia Ceo: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Adeline's POV A hammer drives into my skull the second I try to lift my head off the pillow, and I drop right back down with a groan that scrapes my throat raw. Sunlight cuts through the blinds at an angle built specifically to torture me, landing directly across my eyes no matter which way I turn. One drink. One terrible drink had been enough to turn my entire body against me. But I guess expensive liquor hits different. Pieces of the night surface in no particular order while I lie there waiting for the ceiling to stop swaying. The balcony rail beneath my fingers. Albert peeling that glove off, finger by finger. The glass warming my palm right before the edges of everything smeared into gold light and his voice came from somewhere above me. After that, a gap where the rest of the night should be. I push up onto my elbows, and a voice answers from the direction of my kitchenette before I can even ask the question forming in my throat. "Finally." Clara sits cross-legged on my cou

Albert’s POV A blade thuds into the gilded frame across the room before I've even settled into my chair,embedding itself dead center in the eye of some Rockefeller ancestor nobody at this hotel has bothered to identify. Vivian doesn't look particularly proud of the shot. She crosses the room at an easy pace, heels barely making a sound against the carpet, and yanks the knife free with a twist of her wrist. "They really shouldn't leave the good silver out." She strolls back toward the table, blade spinning once between her fingers before she drops into the seat across from me. "Encourages bad behavior." Manhattan stretches out behind her through the glass wall, forty floors down, gold and red bleeding into the grid of the city. Candlelight sits low along the table and heavy curtains wait drawn back for now, ready to seal the space the moment staff finish their final pass. Security cleared the room an hour ago. Phones stayed at the door with the coats. Staff signing a non disclosur

Adeline's POV The wind climbs the hill ahead of me, tugging at the pleats of my skirt and threatening to reveal exactly how expensive my underwear isn't. I plant the golf club into the grass, using it for support, and drag myself up the slope, heels of my golf shoes sinking into ground that feels more like carpet than earth. Rich people grass. I crouch and run my palm across a patch of it. The blades sit at the same height, trimmed with a precision that makes my chest itch. Mud doesn't exist here. Weeds have apparently been banned from the property. No dandelion dares to exist. Someone pays another human being to make sure this grass never has a bad day, and I'm standing on it in a skirt that cost more than my last rent payment. December air bites through the fabric, and I tug the hem down for what has to be the hundredth time since Julian dropped me at the clubhouse. My club knocks against my shoulder, borrowed, gleaming, useless in my hands. Voices carry from somewhere past the

Adeline's POV The train doors rattle shut behind me, and a burst of warmth replaces the platform chill clinging to my coat. Somebody's headphones leak a tinny version of "Sleigh Ride" from three seats down. A kid presses his face to the window across the aisle, counting the tiny artificial tree balanced on his mother's lap. I grip the pole overhead and find a spot to stand, my boots braced against the sway of the car, my scarf tucked into a coat doing a far worse job than Colette's tailoring ever did. Shopping bags crowd every open space, ribbons and wrapped boxes poking out between shoulders. Everyone on this train is going somewhere warm. I check the time on my phone out of habit, my thumb swiping across the lock screen, then stop. Six fifteen. For three weeks, six fifteen meant a car outside my building, a message from Matteo confirming pickup, or Colette's team knocking with a garment bag and an opinion about my posture. Tonight, six fifteen belongs to me. Nobody's picking

Adeline's POV --- Five outfits. That's the current crisis. They're spread across my bed like they've formed a tiny committee whose only purpose is making me late. Clara sits cross-legged in the middle of them, eating crackers loud enough to qualify as commentary. "The green one," she says. "I wore the green one to the departmental thing last month." "He doesn't know that." "Marco might." Clara tilts her head. "Marco has definitely never spent his free time memorizing your wardrobe.” She’s probably right, but that’s not the point. The point is I’ve been fussing in front of the mirror for forty minutes, smoothing nonexistent creases, and I can’t stop. I know what tonight is. Albert basically spelled it out. ‘My brother is in town. Dinner tomorrow.’ Doesn’t sound like much, but whenever someone asks you to meet the person who knows them best, it’s never nothing. It's an interview pretending to be pasta. Clara wags another cracker at me. “You’re overthinking.” “He literall