Bad Intentions by Tara Wyatt

2

Present Day

Lucian pulled his sleek, black Aston Martin into his reserved spot in the parking garage on West 31^st Street and cut the engine. It was a steamy July morning, and with the car turned off, he immediately missed the cool air filtering through the vents. Gathering his laptop bag from the passenger seat, he opened the door and stepped out into the muggy air. There was nothing quite like Manhattan in summer. The entire city seemed to shimmer with heat, all the pavement and concrete absorbing it and bouncing it off the steel and glass, amplifying it until it felt as though the entire island were under a magnifying glass. The trees in the parks were a bright, vibrant emerald green, lush with the fullness of summer. The sun rose early and set late, stretching the days out into long, meandering things that melted into hot nights. Summer was Lucian’s favorite, and not just because he basked in the heat, but because it was the most profitable time of year for the company he’d built from the ground up, Prescott Hospitality Group.

He slung his laptop bag over his shoulder, eyes skimming the quiet parking garage before setting out to make his way around the block to Penn Plaza, where his company’s offices were located. Twenty years ago, he’d started out with a single restaurant, Downtown, and had gradually expanded, adding restaurants and nightclubs across Manhattan. Today, Prescott Group owned seven nightclubs and ten restaurants in NYC, along with a restaurant and a nightclub in Chicago, and three restaurants and a nightclub in Los Angeles. The expansion into Las Vegas was almost complete, with two restaurants and three nightclubs all set to open within the next eighteen months. Over the past two decades, he’d built a successful business worth nearly $300 million dollars, and he’d done it with sweat and hard work—mostly. He’d started from almost nothing, seeing as he hadn’t been gifted a hefty trust fund like the rest of his siblings—not that they knew that. They assumed he’d been given what they had, and he’d never disabused them of that notion. He’d been a success on his own, without his so-called father’s money. Granted, some luck had been involved, not to mention the event twenty-five years ago that had set everything in motion. He’d been on a very different path then, and in the course of one night, everything had changed.

Sometimes he wondered what would’ve become of his life had he not been in the right place at the right time. He didn’t believe in fate or destiny or any of that shit. Life was what you made of it. But still, he wondered—what would he have made of it if he hadn’t saved the lives of the heads of the Italian and Irish mafia and prevented a mob war from consuming Manhattan? If one pull of the trigger hadn’t set him on a totally different course?

He stepped inside the busy lobby of Penn Plaza and took the elevator up to the thirty-seventh floor, where the company was headquartered. They’d opened a satellite office in Los Angeles last year and would likely follow suit with one in Las Vegas once the new venues were up and running. But he had no plans to leave the city. Manhattan was home. It always would be.

“Your messages, sir.” His executive assistant, Chloe, stood from behind her desk just outside the door to Lucian’s office, handing him a neat stack of papers. Chloe had been with the company for five years now, and while she’d casually expressed interest in Lucian, he hadn’t returned that interest. It didn’t matter that she was young and pretty and available. He didn’t get involved with employees, and his thoughts were fully occupied with someone else. Someone he couldn’t have.

“Thank you,” he said, taking them and sifting through them absently, already prioritizing them. Returning any calls would have to wait, though. It was Monday morning, and every Monday, he met with his inner circle to discuss the week ahead. It was a crucial meeting, for more reasons than one, and he never missed it. “Anything else?” he asked when Chloe didn’t immediately sit down.

She nodded. “Gavin Walsh phoned just a few minutes ago wondering if you’d have some time for him this morning. He said he has a favor to ask you and wanted to come speak to you. I told him I’d have to check your schedule and get back to him.” She glanced at her computer screen. “You do have some time between your regular Monday morning appointment and the update meeting with the architects working on the Vegas project.”

Favors. His entire world hinged on favors, and while sometimes it was a beautiful thing, it could also be tedious. He felt as though entirely too much of his brain was taken up with a ledger of sorts—who he owed, who owed him, what the balance was and how it might be shifting.

He sighed and nodded. “Fine. Tell him to meet me here at 10:30.”

She nodded. “Will do.”

His mind buzzing with everything on the agenda for the day, he set his things down on his desk and then proceeded down the hall to the corner conference room. The room was small but offered a spectacular view of the city rising up around them, sunshine pouring in through the lightly tinted windows. A rectangular white table sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by eight gray leather chairs, four of which were already occupied by the men who helped him run both his company and his more dangerous dealings. They were his brothers in arms, and Lucian trusted them with his life. He’d once saved each of them, had given them shelter and protection, a new life and a fresh start when they’d needed it most, and they paid him back with loyalty and dedication.

And this morning, as happened every Monday morning, they were gathered in the small conference room to discuss business. But not Prescott Group business.

This was Kings of Hell’s Kitchen business.

Lucian had never set out to play the role of judge and guardian in the organized crime world of Manhattan. No, originally he’d been on a very different path, one leading him straight to a lifetime membership with the Italian mafia. He’d started out doing errands for Salvatore Perri when he was just a teenager, having met Sal through his son, who was a friend of Lucian’s, and Sal had taken an interest in him. Lucian, feeling adrift and unwanted by his family, had been looking for a place to belong, and Sal had been happy to offer him one. That was how he’d come to be at the meeting between Sal and Cian Murphy that fateful night when the Bratva had tried to take them out.

He’d been a nineteen-year-old kid looking for family and he’d gotten sucked in deeper than he wanted before he’d fully realized what was happening. Sal had treated him well, had nurtured him the way Lucian’s own father never had. He’d come along as Sal’s body man the night of that meeting, where Sal and Murphy were set to divide up Manhattan, determining who could sell drugs where, run protection rackets, launder money. It was an important meeting, and once everything was agreed upon, the hope was that it would usher in an era of relative peace between the different factions, which in turn, would keep the police off everyone’s backs.

But the Bratva—the Russian mafia who’d turned down an invitation to the meeting—had had other ideas, and they’d sent someone to take out both Sal and Murphy.

And Lucian had shot him, killing him where he’d stood. He was the first man Lucian had ever killed. But he wasn’t the last.

Everything had changed after that night. Grateful, both Sal and Cian Murphy had offered him whatever he wanted, and he’d seen his opportunity. He’d asked for his freedom—which Sal had granted, on the condition that he could still ask Lucian for favors on occasion—and the money to do something legitimate with his life. He’d used that money to start Downtown, and against the odds, it had been a success.

And for a while, he’d thought that was the end of his life in the world of organized crime. But he’d slowly slipped into a new role, helping both Sal and Murphy negotiate with other factions. His reputation as a tough but fair peacekeeper spread, and soon he was arbitrating disputes and dispensing unbiased justice. Everyone except the Bratva had accepted Lucian’s position because he settled things fairly and quietly, which kept many of Sal and Murphy’s guys out of prison. They didn’t want the police involved, and with Lucian’s help, were able to police themselves. Everyone respected Lucian and his decisions, knowing that any threats he made were entirely legitimate. He wasn’t afraid to put someone down if they were a danger to a family or the entire organized crime world.

And even though he wasn’t part of any of the families, being connected to the underground world that operated within Manhattan had been hugely beneficial to Lucian. Doors had been opened for him, favors collected and called in. He operated within shades of gray and believed firmly that every problem had a solution, some more legal than others.

Sometimes he still didn’t fully understand how he’d wound up here, the arbiter of justice and order in a world defined by violence and chaos. A man enforcing rules in a world where nothing was black and white. But here he was, twenty-five years later, keeping the peace in Manhattan with the help of his men.

An unexpected but not unwelcome side effect of his neutral status was that he’d begun to attract strays—from the mob, from the Irish mafia, from the Bratva, from the Yakuza. He took in men who’d become adrift, disillusioned or disenfranchised for one reason or another and gave them a place to belong without incurring the wrath of whatever organization they were leaving. Because they’d turned to Lucian, the peacekeeper, the other families had no choice but to allow Lucian to give them safe harbor. With belonging came loyalty, and over the past several years, he and his men had come to be known as the Kings of Hell’s Kitchen, a nickname Lucian found amusing.

Luca Romano, Prescott Group’s head of client relations, nodded at Lucian as he sat down at the head of the table. Luca had been working for Lucian for ten years now, ever since he’d shown up at one of Lucian’s restaurants, a scared twenty-year-old kid who’d just witnessed the murder of his parents. Infighting among the Columbos had reached a fevered pitch, and it had been up to Lucian to put a stop to what had been dangerously close to becoming a civil war. Lives had been lost—those of the greedy, power hungry insurgents—but the family itself had been saved.

Luca picked up his espresso, the cup almost comically tiny in his large, tattooed hand. “Morning boss.” He set the cup down and opened his laptop, frowning at the screen.

“Something wrong?” asked Lucian, studying the tension on Luca’s face, the set of his shoulders. He had the classic Sicilian looks of many members of the Italian mafia—thick, dark brown hair, deep brown eyes, olive skin.

Luca shoved a hand through his hair. “Maybe. Murphy’s clan is unhappy that the Yakuza are charging finder’s fees for guiding Japanese tourists to their underground casinos.”

Lucian frowned. “How much are they charging?”

Luca’s eyes skimmed over the screen. “It was ten percent, but Murphy says now they’re asking for thirty and sending Vietnamese street gangs to collect the money.” Lucian was pleased that Luca was able to identify the problems immediately. While reserved, Luca was observant and analytical, a hard working and focused member of the team. Granted, he tended to be a little tightly wound and could probably stand to work less and relax more.

“Set up a meeting with Kaito Tanaka. He’s charging too much and shouldn’t be using street gangs to conduct his business.” Street thugs were notoriously greedy, brash, and stupid and would only bring unwanted attention on everyone.

Luca nodded, his fingers already moving across the keyboard. Lucian turned his attention to Ryu Shiroda, a former member of the Yakuza who was now head of finance for Prescott Group. He’d left the Japanese crime organization after his father—a high ranking member of the Manhattan Yakuza—had refused to help Ryu’s mother, a white former prostitute, when she’d become sick with cancer. She’d survived, but Ryu’s relationship with his father hadn’t. He’d always struggled to belong within the organization, and many had seen him as less than, having been born to a mistress, and a white one at that. He’d come to Lucian, bringing with him a math degree along with a keen mind, ambition, and originality.

“Ryu, when the meeting’s arranged, we’ll want you to come and translate.” There would be no hiding behind language barriers.

Ryu nodded, his brown eyes flashing. “Sure thing, boss.” He leaned forward, arms braced on the table, fingers tented. “We should offer to hold the meeting in their territory. They’ll take it as a sign of respect and be somewhat less guarded.”

Lucian nodded. “Good idea,” he said, flicking his gaze back to Luca, whose fingers were still moving across the laptop’s keyboard.

“I should go, too,” said Killian Byrne, Prescott Group’s head of security and the protector and enforcer for the Kings of Hell’s Kitchen. “Murphy likes me. It’ll put him at ease.” Celtic-themed tattoos covered the muscled arms he leaned on the table, his black T-shirt pulling tight against his broad frame. His hair hung to his jaw in dark curls, his sky blue eyes flashing. He wasn’t as tall as the others, coming in at just over six feet, but he was by far the biggest, his body roped with muscle, his huge hands made for destruction.

Killian had been a member of the Irish mob in Boston. An enforcer, and when required, a hit man. To this day, Lucian didn’t know the reasons as to why he’d wanted out. It was something he never talked about, and as long as Killian’s past wasn’t causing issues in the present, Lucian had no inclination to pry. When Killian had turned his back on the Irish mob, his family in Boston had disowned him, and there’d been a price on his head. The Irish swore blood oaths, and in their eyes, that wasn’t something a man could just walk away from. He’d had to leave Boston, and even now, nearly a decade later, he couldn’t go back. It was too dangerous. He’d arrived in New York with nothing but the clothes on his back and the money in his wallet, and Lucian had taken him in.

“Agreed,” said Lucian with a nod. Despite the price on Killian’s head, Murphy had taken a shine to him, and having Killian around always seemed to put everyone on their best behavior. “Any other security updates?”

Killian grimaced. “The Bleeckers tried to get in to Boulevard last night,” he said with a little growl. He took a sip of his coffee, set the cup down and then cracked his knuckles. “Again.”

Lucian sighed. The Bleeckers were an up-and-coming street gang hellbent on dealing drugs in his clubs. They’d become more and more of a problem over the past year—a problem Lucian had no patience for. No one in the organized crime world tolerated street gangs—except for the Yakuza, apparently, a troubling development—and on top of that, he didn’t allow drugs in his clubs. If he let someone deal, he’d be seen as favoring one family over another, and given his neutral status, that wasn’t a message he wanted to send. If people wanted to find drugs, there were plenty of other places they could do it. His clubs were off limits.

“Fucking tweakers,” said Killian. “I scared them off last night, but they’re not getting the message. We might need to start communicating with something more than words.” His eyes glimmered darkly and he bared his teeth in the approximation of a smile. Killian had an intensity to him, a sense of barely leashed passion that only a total fool would ignore.

Lucian stood and paced to the window, his hands in his pockets. He let his gaze rove out across the buildings and intersecting streets as he mulled over the problem. He didn’t want to cause additional trouble by being too heavy handed, but he knew this had to be stamped out. Perseverance was normally a quality he admired, but not when it came to the Bleeckers trying to sell drugs in his clubs.

With a sigh, he turned, zeroing in on Killian. “Next time they show up, you have clearance to scare the shit out of them. But no permanent damage. Not yet.”

Killian nodded slowly. “They’ll be back, maybe even tonight. Little fuckers are tenacious, I’ll give them that.” He took another sip of his coffee and leaned back in his chair. “Bleeckers are the only security issue right now. Once we get them sorted out, things should quiet down.”

Lucian nodded and turned his attention to the last man in the room, Sasha Petrov. Born in Moscow, Sasha had grown up in the Bratva, with his father and all of his uncles being members. But he’d left eight years ago after his father had ended up in prison and the Bratva had hung Sasha out to dry, pinning crimes on him that weren’t his and using him as a scapegoat in order to try to free his more valuable father. Prisoner exchanges weren’t unheard of in Russia, especially when it came to high ranking Bratva members. Even his father had been in favor of the exchange, leaving Sasha without a single ally. So he’d left, turning his back on the only life he’d ever known in order to avoid spending the rest of his life in a Siberian labor camp for his father’s crimes. He’d come to New York to start a new life, but when the Bratva here had targeted him, he’d turned to Lucian for help. He’d taken him in and had quickly found a use for Sasha’s dazzling tech skills. Not only was he the head of IT for Prescott Group, he had the ability to find any information they needed. It was a useful thing to have dirt on every single politician and high ranking, powerful person in the city, and it had come in handy more times than Lucian could count.

“Any investigations we need to worry about?” Lucian asked.

Sasha shook his head. “No. We’re clean right now.” He regularly hacked into the NYPD case files to make sure no one was sticking their nose where Lucian didn’t want it. “And I’m almost finished putting together the profile you wanted on the new chief of police,” he said, his Russian accent making the words sound half swallowed. He took a sip of his coffee and then set the cup down, lifting his hands to adjust the golden brown bun on top of his head. When Sasha had first arrived in New York, he’d been sporting a buzz cut and a clean-shaven jaw. Now, his thick hair hung past his shoulders, and he’d grown a full beard, closely cropped and neatly groomed. Lucian wasn’t sure if it was a reinvention, or a means of hiding himself.

Lucian nodded. “Good. Send it to me when you have it.” Everyone tried to stay away from the police, but it didn’t hurt to have useful information on the new chief, should they need it. Better to be prepared than left scrambling if shit were to hit the fan.

Lucian sat back down in his chair and the meeting continued for another thirty minutes as they sorted out the week ahead and he made sure everyone was clear on what was needed this week. Once the assignments were settled and all pressing business had been discussed, he dismissed everyone and then headed back to his office, where he found Gavin Walsh already waiting for him, as he’d known he would.

“Gavin,” he said, extending his hand. They shook, Gavin’s grip firm and strong. His salt and pepper hair was thick and wavy, styled precisely, and he wore a royal blue suit tailored to perfection. He’d made his money on Wall Street in the 1980s and had started his successful venture capital firm twenty-five years ago now. Today, Walsh Assets was worth hundreds of millions of dollars, if not billions. Gavin was a powerful man to have on his team, even if he unknowingly caused a lot of stress. Lucian always felt as though he was walking on eggshells around Gavin because if he ever found out about the Kings of Hell’s Kitchen or Lucian’s criminal ties, Prescott Group was fucked. Gavin was completely above board and wouldn’t tolerate being involved with criminals in any way whatsoever. He’d pull his investments and cause significant damage to the company. Not to mention what else he might do with the information Lucian kept so closely guarded. One word to the FBI and Lucian could wind up in prison. Which, obviously, was not the end goal here, and not just because orange wasn’t his color.

And then, there was Olivia. Gavin’s twenty-six-year-old daughter who dominated Lucian’s fantasies and haunted his dreams. If Gavin had any idea as to the thoughts Lucian had about his daughter, he’d probably cut his balls off, and Lucian couldn’t blame him. Not one bit.

“What can I do for you?” Lucian took a seat behind his desk, gesturing for Gavin to take the empty chair facing it. Gavin sat down, his eyes trained on Lucian.

“I have a favor to ask,” he said, easing back in the chair and crossing an ankle over the opposite knee. His face was relaxed, open. He was a friendly guy, easygoing in a way that made Lucian feel like he was all sharp edges and sandpaper insides compared to Gavin. Then again, Gavin wasn’t straddling two worlds on a daily basis. Sometimes, Lucian envied him and the inherent simplicity of his life. He had a successful business, a beautiful daughter. He took luxurious vacations and spent his Saturday mornings reading murder mysteries. He golfed and sailed and went to nice restaurants without having to constantly scan the faces in the crowd, alert for potential threats. He got to live and love and just be in a way that Lucian never would.

“So I’d gathered,” said Lucian, glancing up as Chloe poked her head in.

“Mr. Walsh, can I get you something to drink?” she asked, her head tilted. “Coffee? Water?”

He smiled and shook his head. “No, thank you, Chloe. I’m fine and this won’t take long.”

She nodded and left, the frosted glass door whooshing quietly shut behind her.

“It’s about Maison Blanche,” he said.

Lucian frowned slightly. The French-inspired bistro was Prescott Group’s latest project in Manhattan, set to open in the fall. Construction was nearly finished and everything was on schedule.

“What about it?”

Gavin smiled. “You remember my daughter Olivia, I’m sure.”

Lucian’s blood went both hot and cold at the mention of her name. “Of course,” he said, trying to keep the wariness out of his voice. Remember her. Of fucking course he remembered her.

“She finished her MFA in interior design two years ago and she’s been working under Joan Waxman for the past eighteen months. She’s looking to expand her portfolio, and I thought she might be a good fit for the bistro project.”

“Mmm.” He didn’t know what else to say. Obviously he was going to have to say no, given that the bistro was his pet project and he’d been overseeing it. He just needed to come up with a better reason than I’m obsessed with your daughter. I want to claim her and own her and ruin her until she’s mine, in every single way. I want her addicted to me, begging for me, needing things she didn’t even know she wanted.

Apparently Gavin took Lucian’s silence for professional reluctance—thank God for small miracles—and he leaned forward, still smiling. “I know she’s a bit young and inexperienced, but she was the top of her class at Pratt, and she’s been working under one of Manhattan’s most illustrious interior designers. She’s talented, and I’m not just saying that because I’m her father. I think she’d be an asset to this project.”

Lucian grimaced, wracking his brain for a reasonable excuse to say no. “I appreciate that and I’m sure she’s talented, but you know that we normally work with much more experienced designers.”

“Will you at least meet with her? Let her show you her portfolio and what she’s capable of? I’d consider it a huge favor if you’d give her a chance.” There was a weight behind Gavin’s words that Lucian didn’t miss. Gavin was still smiling, but he wasn’t going to take no for an answer on this, and Lucian wasn’t fool enough to mistake Gavin’s general kindness for weakness. If Lucian agreed to meet with her, he’d have to hire her. He wouldn’t be able to come up with a good enough reason not to, and saying no outright would damage his relationship with Gavin.

Goddammit.

He sighed and then forced a small smile to his lips. “Sure. Of course I’ll meet with her. She can stop by the bistro next week. I’ll have Chloe set something up.”

Gavin stood. “Thanks, Lucian. I appreciate this, and I know Olivia will, too. And I promise, you won’t be disappointed in her work.”

It wasn’t her work he was concerned about. Her skills as an interior designer were the furthest thing from his mind as he wondered how the hell he was going to navigate this unscathed.

“I’m sure I won’t,” he murmured, rubbing a hand over his mouth.

Gavin snapped his fingers. “You know, I think she mentioned that she and her friends were planning to go to Boulevard this weekend for Liv’s birthday. If you see her, you could talk to her there.”

Lucian frowned. “Friday or Saturday?” He needed to know which night to avoid the most popular upscale club he owned.

“Saturday.”

“Well, I’d hate to interrupt her birthday celebrations with shop talk,” he said carefully.

Gavin shook his head. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.” Then he frowned, a pensive look on his face. “That place has good security, right?”

Lucian’s brows knit together. “Of course. You know that all of our establishments do.”

“Good.” He nodded, still looking distracted.

“Why?”

Gavin shook his head and sat back down. “It’s probably nothing. But she mentioned that this guy she was seeing briefly, Massimo, he’s not taking the break up very well.”

Everything inside Lucian went hot and tight. “In what way?”

Gavin shrugged. “Calling her, texting her. He’s shown up a few times when she’s been out with friends. She says it’s nothing, but…” He shook his head. “I know she’s a grown woman and can handle her own life. I just worry, you know? Probably unnecessarily, but still.”

Lucian’s hands curled into fists and his gut clenched. Great. Now he had no choice but to show up at Boulevard on Saturday because he sure as fuck wasn’t going to leave Olivia vulnerable. He should’ve been keeping a closer eye on her. That would’ve been the prudent thing to do. But he’d been so caught up in trying to ignore the lust burning through his system that he’d apparently let her get involved with some fuckwad who couldn’t take no for an answer.

She was supposed to call him if she needed help, and she hadn’t. Which meant one of two things: the situation wasn’t as serious as Gavin was making it out to be, or she’d deliberately not reached out to him.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to unload all of that on you.”

Lucian shot him a placating smile. “It’s fine. I’ll be there on Saturday.” He forced himself to meet Gavin’s eyes. “I’ll keep an eye on her.” He leaned forward, bracing his arms on the desk and lacing his fingers together. “This Massimo have a last name?”

Gavin scratched his cheek. “Ah…shit. I don’t actually know. They only dated for a few weeks. I never met him.”

Not the information he was hoping for, but it was a start. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother her on Saturday.”

Gavin flashed him a grateful smile, and guilt exploded through Lucian like a bullet, hot and sharp, lodged inside him where it burrowed deeper and deeper. He thought his interest in Olivia was nothing more than one friend doing a favor for the other, but it was so much more than that. For five years now, he’d wanted Olivia. Wanted her while knowing he couldn’t have her. His interest in Olivia had nothing to do with Gavin and everything to do with her. But regardless of his motivation, he’d look out for her. He’d keep her safe. Even if he couldn’t have her, he could do that.

As he saw Gavin out, he mentally went over his list of reasons why Olivia Walsh was completely off limits, layering each reason on top of the other like a piece of armor.

She was too young for him, far too young.

His life was far too complicated. Far too dangerous to risk involving her—or any woman—in it. His position in the underground world he moved in was precarious and the smallest change, the slightest disturbance could tip the scales one direction or the other. He couldn’t afford to upset the balance.

Her father was his company’s biggest investor. If he did something to piss Gavin off, it could be a financial disaster for Prescott Group. They employed nearly 2,000 people, and Lucian wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize their jobs.

So many reasons, all completely valid. All weighty and worthy and true.

And yet, just the knowledge that he was going to see Olivia on Saturday had his gut tightening and his blood heating. And now he was supposed to work with her on a regular basis—at least until the bistro project was complete.

After he’d walked Gavin to the elevator, he returned to his desk and sat down in his chair, the leather creaking softly under his weight. He swiveled to look out at the Manhattan skyline, wondering how to best play this out. He couldn’t refuse to hire Olivia. He didn’t have a valid reason not to, and he knew Gavin would push it if Lucian fought him on it. Not to mention that it would be suspicious as hell if it was obvious he was avoiding her.

He pressed his fingers against his mouth as he wondered if he should just pass the bistro project on to someone else. But he didn’t want to do that for a few reasons, the main one being that it was his pet project, his idea, and he wanted to see it through. Everyone knew that the bistro was his project, and it might raise a few eyebrows if he suddenly distanced himself from it.

And, bastard that he was, he didn’t want to pull out of the project. No, now that Olivia was attached, that was the last thing he wanted to do. Being around her was always the sweetest kind of torture, an ache he both dreaded and craved. She made him feel as though he were starving, staring at a five-course meal he wasn’t allowed to touch, but he lived for the torment all the same.

He rubbed a hand over his face. “Fuck,” he said softly before turning his chair back around and picking up the phone on his desk, punching in Sasha’s extension.

“Yes?” he answered on the first ring.

“I need you to do some digging. Gavin Walsh’s daughter Olivia briefly dated a man named Massimo. I don’t have a last name, address or age. But I need you to find him and then find out everything you can about him.”

Sasha sighed. “You’re not giving me much to work with here, boss.”

“I know. But that’s all I have.”

Another sigh. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good. If you can get me the info before Saturday, even better.”

“I’m on it.”

Lucian hung up the phone and somehow managed to wrench his attention away from Olivia and to the rest of the work day ahead of him, his blood still humming with the knowledge that he’d see her in a few days.