Chapter 4 4

The next morning, Cinnamon stood before her full-length mirror. Gone was the pastel sundress she usually wore to appease Arturo's preference for the "innocent ward" aesthetic. In its place was a sharp, charcoal pencil skirt and a white silk blouse, the top button undone just enough to be professional yet distracting. She pulled her hair back into a severe bun.

She looked like a weapon.

She dialed Mia. "I'm going in."

"Into the lion's den?" Mia's voice crackled with worry. "Cin, he blocked the background check. He knows."

"I know he knows. That's why I'm bringing lunch." Cinnamon picked up the paper bag from the kitchen counter. Inside was a panino with prosciutto, mozzarella, and truffle oil-Arturo's weakness from a specific deli in Little Italy. "I'm going to negotiate."

The Watts Capital tower in the Financial District was a monolith of glass and steel. Cinnamon walked through the lobby, her heels clicking with purpose. The receptionist started to stand up to block her, saw her face, and immediately sat back down, picking up the phone with trembling hands.

"Ms. Taylor. I... I didn't know you were coming."

"Surprise," Cinnamon said, breezing past security toward the private elevator.

When the doors opened on the penthouse floor, the noise hit her. The trading floor below was a chaotic sea of shouting and ringing phones, but up here, in the executive suite, it was quiet. Too quiet.

Carter was standing outside Arturo's office, looking like he had just seen a ghost.

"Cinnamon? You can't be here. He's in a meeting."

"I'll wait." She sat on the leather sofa, crossing her legs. She picked up a copy of The Economist, but her eyes were scanning the hallway.

Ten minutes later, the double doors of the conference room opened. Three men walked out. They weren't clients. They wore ill-fitting gray suits and carried thick, nondescript folders.

One of the folders had a logo stamped on the corner. SEC.

Cinnamon's breath hitched. Tiffany wasn't lying. The Securities and Exchange Commission was here. They were investigating him.

Arturo stepped out behind them. He looked exhausted. His tie was loosened, his sleeves rolled up, and there were dark circles under his eyes that no amount of money could hide.

He saw the agents to the elevator, his face a mask of polite cooperation. As the doors closed, the mask fell. He slumped slightly.

Then he saw her.

His eyes narrowed. He crossed the room in three long strides, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her into his office, slamming the door shut behind them.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed, releasing her.

Cinnamon held up the paper bag. "I brought lunch. And I wanted to talk about my future."

Arturo stared at the bag, then at her. He rubbed his temples. "I don't have time for this, Cinnamon. I have federal agents crawling up my ass."

"I saw." She walked around his massive oak desk. "Bad time for the company?"

"It's a routine audit," he lied smoothly.

"It looked like a subpoena to me." She set the bag down. "Here. Eat. You look like you haven't slept in a week."

Arturo looked at the sandwich. He hesitated, then sat down heavily in his chair. "You shouldn't be here. If they see you..."

"If they see me, what? They'll think the loving fiancée is bringing lunch to her hardworking man?" Cinnamon moved behind his chair. She reached out and placed her hands on his shoulders. The muscles were rock hard, knotted with tension.

She began to knead them. Arturo flinched, then groaned low in his throat, his head dropping forward.

"You're tense," she whispered.

"I'm managing," he grunted.

"Are you?" She pressed her thumbs into the base of his neck. "Mia told me about the background check."

Arturo stiffened under her hands. He opened his eyes, grabbing her wrist and pulling her around so she was standing between his spread knees.

"I told you," he said, his voice low. "No FBI."

Cinnamon didn't pull away. She leaned back against the edge of his desk, crossing her ankles. She was trapped between his legs and the desk, but she felt like she was the one in control.

"Here's the deal, Arturo," she said, her voice steady. "You unblock my application. You make the call right now."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because if you don't," she leaned down, bringing her face level with his, "I'm going to apply for an internship at the New York Times. specifically on the financial crimes desk. And I have a lot of interesting stories to tell about growing up in the Watts household."

Arturo stared at her. For a moment, she thought he was going to explode. But then, a corner of his mouth twitched.

He stood up, towering over her. He placed his hands on the desk on either side of her hips, boxing her in.

"You're threatening me?" he murmured, his face inches from hers. She could smell the coffee on his breath.

"I'm negotiating," she corrected, her heart hammering against her ribs. "You need the IPO to go smoothly. You need me to be quiet and look pretty. I can do that. But I need Quantico."

Arturo looked at her lips, then up to her eyes. He saw the fire there. He realized, perhaps for the first time, that he couldn't just lock her in a tower anymore. She would burn the tower down.

"Fine," he said.

Cinnamon blinked. "Fine?"

"But I have conditions."

"Name them."

"One: You spend three nights a week at the Manor. No exceptions. I need to know you're safe."

"Two nights," she countered.

"Three. Take it or leave it."

She gritted her teeth. "Fine. Three."

"Two: You do not investigate the Watts family. You stay away from my business."

"Agreed." (She crossed her fingers mentally).

"And three..." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a gravelly rasp that sent shivers down her spine. "I am your emergency contact. Your only contact. If you get into trouble, you call me. Not Mia. Not the police. Me. You answer my calls on the first ring. 24/7."

Cinnamon swallowed hard. It was possessive. It was controlling. But it was the only way out.

"Deal."

Arturo didn't smile. He picked up the phone on his desk and hit a speed dial button.

"Carter," he said, his eyes never leaving Cinnamon's. "Get Senator Rawlings on the line. Tell him I'm calling in that favor regarding the Justice Department. There's a personnel file that needs a second look... yes, Taylor. Make it happen."

He hung up.

"Eat your sandwich," Cinnamon said, her voice breathless. She slid off the desk, ducking under his arm. "I have to go study."

She walked to the door, feeling his eyes burning a hole in her back. She had won.

Or at least, she thought she had.