Marrying the Mob Prince

INDIE

“I’m here to interview Mr. Knox.”

I forced a grin at the femme fatale blonde who collected me from the lobby of The Spheres. She glanced up from her tablet, her gaze sliding up and down my pencil skirt and blazer, apparently unimpressed. She held out a hand, palm up.

“Badge.”

I lifted it over my head and handed it over. The Spheres were two giant glass domes in Boston’s financial district. Black Prism’s CEO, Bryan Knox, had built them years ago. The offices were comprised of conservatories only accessible to employees and housed tens of thousands of tropical plants tended by a full-time horticulturalist.

Knox declined interviews. I pointed out as much in my column-Nobody Has Ever Interviewed Bryan Knox. After its publication, I’d landed the first-ever interview with him. He had asked for me.

Any journalist worth their salt would kill for the opportunity to write this profile. Knox had quite the reputation. Boston locals loathed him for gentrifying Southie, building luxury housing, and displacing the poor. He’d ignored pleas from the Dorchester community to halt his construction plans. He was more than a real estate magnate, though. He’d been a child prodigy who attended MIT at twelve. I couldn’t wait to meet him and see for myself if the man matched the op-eds that trashed him regularly.

Security waved me inside.

The door opened with a compression-like hiss, and I walked into a jungle. It was something out of Waikiki, with paved paths sweeping around lush greenery. Ferns and black grass burst everywhere, shadowed by mossy trees. Employees wore T-shirts and shorts like tourists on vacation, their laptop bags slung over their shoulders. Water played on a waterfall two stories tall, the mist sprinkling my cheeks.

Beautiful.

Unreal.

“You can wait for Mr. Knox here. He should be along shortly.”

The blonde gave me a tight-lipped smile and a nod before darting in another direction. My head buzzed as I drank in the green environment and the resort-like feel. I glanced at the cafe, where employees lined up to grab food from a buffet-style banquet.

I cupped the white petals of an orchid, stroking its velvety flesh. It must be a privilege to work here, especially during our brutal winters. What a sight it would be to sit among the tropical flora and watch snowflakes drift outside.

I craned my neck to observe the top of the dome, but a thick canopy of branches blocked most of the hexagonal steel lattice.

“All that’s missing are the birds.”

“I thought about it,” murmured a silky voice beside my ear. “But I didn’t want to deal with them dive-bombing software engineers during mating season.”

I turned to face a man in a black T-shirt that hugged his long torso, the ends tucked into dark blue denim. The jeans looked indecent on him, hanging low on his trim waist. My gaze skipped up the athletic form that channeled Brad Pitt circa Fight Club, my breath hitching as our gazes crashed. A layer of stubble clung to his strong jaw, deepening the cleft in his chin. Thick eyebrows slanted over espresso eyes.

Bryan Knox didn’t look like a CEO. Men that rugged and beautiful belonged on a mountain. I couldn’t picture him bent over a laptop eight hours a day. Drop dead handsome. There was no getting around his magnetism. His stare commanded an unflinching authority, but such icy contempt. Holding it was overwhelming.

I broke into an open, friendly smile. “Mr. Knox. Indie Starling. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise, Miss Starling.”

He smiled, but it didn’t soften his appearance. He offered me a large, veiny hand. Calluses caressed my palm as I took it, and a current zigzagged through me.

“Thanks for inviting me. I appreciate the opportunity and can’t thank you enough.” I sucked in my lip before I realized I’d gnawed on a freshly healed cut. “This place is gorgeous.”

“Glad you like it. Not everybody appreciates the humidity and seventy-two-degree temp.”

His gaze traveled over me before settling on my eyes. He still hadn’t let go of my hand. Slowly, his palm slipped from mine in a sensual caress that tingled up my arm.

“Shall I give you the tour?”

I nodded. “I’d love that.”

“Perfect.”

Warmth stole into my face at that low-timbred purr. Then he palmed my upper back, and a shudder heated my body.

Get it together.

Nailing this profile was critical for my career but I was off my game, taken aback by my attraction to him. I tuned out the distraction of his touch as I followed him up an open staircase.

Knox led me through the buildings and pointed out factoids about their construction, his assistant trailing us. He showed me a tree so tall my neck hurt as I gaped at it. “This is a sixty-year-old ficus from California. I had it uprooted and delivered by crane.”

“Wow. That’s incredible.” I fanned myself. Was it too hot in here? Or was I burning up from his fingers on my back? “Sorry, can I have a moment? I need to take off this jacket. I didn’t expect to walk through a jungle for this interview.”

I shifted my handbag from my shoulder. Knox held out his hand, and I gave it to him. Our fingers brushed each other in the briefest of moments, and a jolt shot up my arm. I ripped my jacket off and tied it around my waist, grateful for the sleeveless blouse underneath.

“That’s a lot better. Thanks.”

I reached for my bag, but Knox lifted it over my head. I stilled as this brought us within an unbearably close distance. He was truly stunning. He was such a man, not just because of his thick arms and broad shoulders, but because he carried himself with such unnerving confidence.

He lowered the bag to my shoulder. I inhaled sharply as the strap slid between my breasts, the sensation erotic even though his hands barely touched me. It was a polite, somewhat intimate gesture, like a man taking a coat off his female companion’s back.

“Better?” he whispered.

“Yes, thank you.”

My cheeks burned as he stepped away, no longer hovering but still close.

“Did you have another question?” he prompted after a long pause.

I removed a notepad from my purse, blanking on the questions I’d prepared. “Why did you bring the tree here?” Who gives a fuck about the tree? “Was it a statement for environmentalism?”

“I did it because I can,” he drawled, his gaze roaming over my bare arms. “Sometimes a tree is just a tree, Indie.”

Why did this feel like an awkward first date?

I shook it off. “Why do you have such a contentious relationship with the press?”

“They pretend to be impartial but always have an agenda. They make sweeping judgments on my real estate purchases, my achievements in cybersecurity, my success.”

“You take the negative articles personally.”

He shrugged. “They’re businesses. They study click-through rates. If they publish content about me, they’ll get more traffic. It’s why there are thousands of comments on your op-ed.”

“That sounds right. I mean, your face is constantly on my newsfeed. Every time I open Facebook, there you are.”

“The amount doesn’t matter. An algorithm decides what you read, Indie. Search engine AIs are ridiculously smart. If you click on stories about me, you’ll find more of them on your newsfeed. Apparently, you can’t get enough of me.”

Was he flirting with me?

I laughed a beat too late, overwhelmed by that possibility. “It’s hard not to consume everything about you.”

“Is it, now?”

Ignoring his teasing, I charged on. “You’re a staple of everyday conversation. Most people have at least one friend or relative who’s employed at one of your companies. If not, they live in your luxury apartments, your affordable housing, or they’re being evicted so you can build more high-rises. You sponsor popular events. You’re the talk of the town, whether you like it or not.”

“Stop flattering me. It’s a cheap interviewing tactic.”

“Is it working?”

His smile contained an erotic spark.

“Why did you invite an obscure women’s website to interview you?”

“If I give this opportunity to someone, it’ll be to a company that hasn’t published libelous trash about me.”

“Can you be more specific about what you consider libelous?”

“I’m referring to the tabloid rags screaming about how I’m destroying Boston. The moaning over disappearing Dollar Trees. The bitching about rezoning single-family homes. Nobody mentions the positives. I’m creating jobs. I’m building housing. The salaries at Black Prism are very competitive. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

It does to me. “Those aren’t the most questionable things about you.”

“Enlighten me, then.”

“Well, some believe you work for the Mafia.”

He snorted. “That’s absurd.”

“There are pictures of you with known Costa associates.”

“Alleged associates.”

“Anthony Costa, son of notorious gangster Nico, isn’t involved with the Costa Crime Family?” I said, incredulous. “Why are you meeting this guy?”

“No comment.”

“Let’s get back to gentrification.”

“My favorite topic.”

I swallowed a bundle of nerves, forcing my breathing to slow. “People don’t react well to change. You’re cleaning up Dorchester. It’s ruffling feathers, but most people don’t realize you grew up there. Did your experience compel you to pave over that neighborhood and rebuild?”

My voice drifted to a whisper as shock and anger lit up Knox’s features. A flicker of apprehension coursed through me. He stepped into my personal space, his face a glowering mask.

“My past is off-limits.”

“That’s not true for anybody else. Why should you be the exception?”

My guts clenched as he gripped the railing, closing off any escape. His warning growl and his posturing should have alarmed me, but instead a deep thrill ran down my neck and teased my nipples.

He gave me a sharp look that made me want to stammer an apology. “I’m not everybody.”

“You feel you deserve special treatment?”

“Yes,” he said, his arrogance stunning me. “I have a target on my back, and that extends to the people in my life. So I don’t talk about where I lived, and neither will you.”

“I can’t write a profile without including your background. Look, I went to Colonial Street. I even persuaded the current tenants to let me inside your triple-decker.” My insides squirmed as Knox’s frown darkened. “Rough neighborhood. What was it like growing up in an area infested by motorcycle gangs?”

Knox glared at me, the air choked with a blistering silence that stoked into larger flames. A vacancy slid over his gaze like shutters on windows.

“This interview is over.”

My stomach dropped as he moved past me and headed across the catwalk. I struggled to keep up with his rapid pace, desperate to salvage this conversation.

“Mr. Knox, wait-”

“I need to contact my lawyer.”

“Why?”

He descended the stairs. “Because this profile is taking on an entirely different shape.”

“The one where you’re portrayed like a human being and not a cartoon villain? You don’t want people to see the real you?”

He rounded on me, his voice deadly. “My childhood home is private information.”

“It’s not exactly a secret.”

“It’s my life. What gives you the right to publish that?”

“You’re a public figure.”

“This was a mistake.” He waved at his assistant. “Escort her out.”

I grabbed his wrist. I don’t know what insanity provoked me to restrain him, or why I thought he’d respond, but I couldn’t blow up this opportunity. He frowned at my hand, his expression so severe I almost let him go.

“Mr. Knox, I’m not writing another piece trashing you. There are already plenty of those. If you don’t believe me, take a look at my work history. I have never written a negative profile. I don’t like to do that. It makes me feel bad, and it also burns bridges. I just want the truth, and I think that a man who builds a place like this can’t be the soulless tyrant everyone makes him out to be.”

“Send it to me for approval before your editors,” he said, this time with less gravel. “Remove any details about my personal life. Then you’ll thank your lucky stars that I’m amused by your invasion of privacy and won’t ruin your career.”Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

And he could do it.

“You’re not my boss,” I reminded him lightly. “And there’s no need to get nasty. I promise to be fair.”

“I might not be your boss, but my opinion is the only one that matters. You’ll hear from my lawyer soon.”

I couldn’t let him leave. I still held onto his wrist, and his apoplectic glare sent my heart racing. “What if we negotiate what goes in the profile?”

“No.”

“Can you at least admit that the people who claim you’re from a privileged background are wrong?” Knox didn’t seem to care about scoring brownie points with the public, but I soldiered on. “People would love to read about your humble beginnings. Your teacher mentioned your family was on food stamps. Can you verify that?”

His stony expression never flickered, but a sensual thread grew between us. He flexed his fingers in my grip, and my awareness of his skin touching mine blazed like a torch. He rotated his palm so that he now held me. He didn’t crush my wrist like I feared, but he was firm.

“You’re very bold for a woman,” he murmured, the low timbre of his voice pulsing through me. “That’s new for me. Most can’t even meet my gaze.”

Sure as hell wasn’t easy.

Photos could never capture what it felt like to stand in this strange jungle and struggle with a mad impulse to flee. People compared Knox to a Mafia don.

“Please answer the question.”

“Yes, it’s true.”

He pulled free of my grasp and balled his fist, trapping our heat in his palm.

“I’m so sorry to hear that. You emancipated at sixteen, right?” I swallowed hard when he said nothing. “What was your childhood like?”

Knox’s smile darkened. “Not a fan of foreplay?”

I didn’t mean to blurt it out, but I couldn’t shake my growing suspicion that he’d been abused. After talking to his teacher, it seemed likely.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude.”

“And yet you ask wildly inappropriate questions for a reporter who is supposed to grill me on my workout routine.”

“I’m not interested in that. I don’t write banal clickbait. I couldn’t care less about your keto diet or how many girlfriends you have.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Your article speculated about my love life.”

“Only to chastise people for criticizing your Leonardo DiCaprio lifestyle. It’s normal for a man to only date women under twenty-five. You know, up to a point. Do you have a girlfriend?”

Knox worked his jaw as though fighting a grin. “That’s all the time I have for today. It was nice meeting you.”

My mind fluttered as he shook my hand.

“Thank you so much.”

An eternity passed between Knox releasing me and him pulling out his wallet. My mouth felt like sandpaper, and I didn’t seem to know what to do with myself. The awkwardness of a first date hit me again as I stood in his dominating presence and tried not to tremble.

I forced myself to turn, but his firm touch on my shoulder stopped me. I cleared my throat, pretending to not be affected.

“Indie, I’m not currently in a relationship, but I’m always on the lookout for Mrs. Bryan Knox.”

Knox pulled a business card out of his wallet, engraved with his initials and a number. He pushed it into my pocket. My face burned as he lightly stroked my leg, the action incongruous with his cold gaze.

“Maybe you’re her,” he deadpanned. “Call me.”