Vicious Proposal: A Dark Mafia Romance

“We’re not.” Melanie glared at her bodyguard. I found it fascinating, watching the power struggle play out, but I didn’t want to do this where Cedric could hear.

“In the car,” I said, hustling them closer. I opened the back door, but the women stood there, glaring at each other.

“You’re not making this call,” Palmira said. “You’re too close to this. Whatever little game you’re playing is through.”

“I don’t answer to you,” Melanie said. “You’re my bodyguard and it’s your job to keep me alive.”

“Mel,” Palmira said, warning. “I’ll talk to Redmond if I have to.”

“Go ahead, run off to my brother. He’ll do your work for you, but it won’t matter. I’m not walking away.” Melanie stared down the deadly assassin for another second before turning her back. She got into the Rover without another word. I smiled at Palmira.

“Guess that’s that,” I said, and followed Melanie into the back seat.

Palmira looked furious, but she got up front with the driver. We headed back to campus, gliding away from the hellish home and whatever nightmare unfolded inside.

“That didn’t go as planned,” Melanie said. She looked shaken up, flustered from her argument and from Cedric appearing unexpectedly.

“No, not even close.”

“But it wasn’t a total loss.” She pulled an envelope from her back pocket. It was made from thick, fancy I, textured paper, with an address written in looping script. There was no return address.

“What is that?”

“This is my mother’s handwriting. Postmarked three weeks before I moved out here.” She tested the seal. “Uncle Cedric never opened it. I found it at the bottom of his office drawer.”

“What’s it say?”

“Let’s find out.” She tore the seal and ripped it open.

Chapter 20

Melanie

The dorm was quiet. Sarah was off studying again, probably hunched over a desk in the library reading until her eyes were on fire. For the sister of an Oligarch, she sure as hell cared about getting her degree.

Comparatively, I was a slacker, and I was sure my grades would reflect my extremely hands-off approach to studying. And to going to class. And to basically everything to do with being a normal college student.

Not that it mattered. I stared at the piece of folded paper in my hands, a paper that was extremely familiar to me. My mother used this stationary exclusively, and had it made by some fancy French paper mill. Small threads of real silver were woven in with the cotton and wood pulp, giving it a slight shimmer, like it was made of metal. It felt smooth, but looked rough, and it was decorated at the top and bottom with fine golden filigree.

The paper cost more than some people made in an entire year.

Mother’s handwriting was awful. It always had been. The letter was a scrawl of pen, like she’d dashed it off in a hurry. Her name was signed at the bottom, only her first and last, nothing else: Constance Orchard.

I closed my eyes and recited the note from memory.

“Dear Cedric, I hope this note finds you well. I know we haven’t corresponded for a long time. However, I find my situation has changed. This note is a warning. My daughter was accepted to Stanford and plans to enroll. She is moving out there in several weeks. I know you still reside in the area.

“I’m writing for two reasons. First, my daughter has been asking questions about her grandfather. She thinks she is clever, but she is not. She knows something. I am not sure what, but I fear she is digging too deeply into our family’s history. Please, if she approaches you, tell her nothing. She knows very little about the situation with Father, and I wish for it to remain that way.

“I am also writing for another reason. An older reason, one which should have been done a long time ago. I am writing to say: Thank you. You know for what. I wish things could have been different. But life is as it is.

“Again, be careful of my daughter. Your sister, Constance Orchard.”

I read, reread, and reread it, over and over, the language burned into my eyelids.

What the hell was it about?

She knew I wanted to research grandfather’s death. She’d figured it out—I suppose I wasn’t as sneaky as I thought. Mother was smart and I should’ve known she’d see through my very transparent questioning.

But she didn’t know about the notebook. That was good. She was worried I’d stumble onto their secret, but she didn’t know I was sure of what that secret actually was, and all I needed was proof.

The end of the letter threw me off. I didn’t understand why my mother would thank her brother after all these years of not speaking to each other, especially after he’d gotten her removed from the will. Cedric was given everything when my grandfather died, and my mother remained a castoff, thrown aside and forgotten. Cedric took over the business and the money, and my mother struggled until she met my father.