Page 73 of Manic

“Very well,” Feliks said finally, silencing whatever nonsense was about to spew from Dmitri. He jerked his chin toward the door, and everyone began to file out.

As soon as we entered the hall and they all walked toward the elevators, I sighed. A nervous sweat dampened my forehead, but Manic lingered with a small twist to his mouth.

“What?” I asked.

“You are much smarter than you appear.”

What the fuck?

“And you’re still an asshole.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s not what I meant. How did you know that would work?”

He urged me down a hallway, and my skin pricked when I realized where we were headed. Toward the intern wing of my father’s casinos to gather those reports—the very place Noah had worked before. The very place he’d worked before being murdered. Memories of our last days together swept over me, and my heartbeat stumbled in my chest.

“I didn’t,” I said.

“You did. Explain it.”

I sighed again, shooting him a glare. “My math degree teaches us how systems behave. Market design teaches us how to make them behave. When men’s egos are too big to cooperate, you don’t fight them—you control incentives. Do that right, and compliance takes care of itself. No fighting, and everyone wins.” I snorted at my own comment. “Well, except for my father.”

Manic stopped and peered down his nose with a hint of a smile. Genuine admiration, it seemed like. He looked at me with a sense of awe, and something warm gathered inside me. Then a sharp click of heels yanked my eyes behind me, and I blinked, my heart freezing.

My body locked, my stare pinned down the hall.

With brown wisps of hair flying past her shoulders, Cece walked toward me, papers in hand, with a type of hatred in her scowl that could only come from an enemy. Noah’s former best friend who was also an intern at the casino. Though now, I assumed she had an official position amongst my father’s staff.

I’d wanted to avoid a confrontation with her since The Riot when Manic had seen her, but it appeared it was bound to happen regardless. I hadn’t talked to her since Noah’s funeral. But looking at her now, it was clear she had no clue as to why she was giving me these papers. She would have quit by now if she did. Or, knowing the mafia, died unexpectedly.

“Sutton,” she greeted with an undercurrent of malice. “When I heard these were for you, I had to deliver them myself.”

She extended the papers, but when I reached for them, she pulled back an inch. A faint smile pulled at her mouth. I hid my frustration with a smile of my own.

“What do you want?” I asked sweetly.

Her eyes drifted to Manic then back to me. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. It’s… good to see you alive and well. Much better than Noah. Tell me, have you gone to visit him?”

A small tremble overtook my hands, the oxygen in my lungs slow and painful. Constricting. Tears pricked my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I refused to let her win this time. Cece tilted her head, and I moved closer, my hands clenched tight. I wasn’t entirely sure of what I’d do, but Manic halted my steps by a firm grip on my arm.

“I don’t need to visit,” I said finally, my voice thin. “Give me the reports.”

“Right,” she said, her eyes narrowing to slits before plopping them in my hands. “Why would you? You move on so quickly, it’s almost like he never even existed.”

She immediately turned on her heel, leaving me standing there with panted breaths and a swell of disbelief. Cece never liked me, and when Noah had died, her hatred only grew. She’d caused a scene at his funeral, in which my father had her escorted out. Yet somehow, she was still working here. Even after what she’d done.

“Who was that?” Manic asked quietly.

I swallowed every emotion and memory, every thought threatening to drown me in that moment before facing him. I smiled tightly, clutched those papers against my chest, and simply said, “No one.”

18

MANIC

“What brings me the displeasure of seeing you on my doorstep?” I asked Amelia as she walked through my kitchen.

“Manic,” she said in greeting.

I took another drag from my cigarette and strode in from the balcony, eyeing the young lawyer who carried a briefcase in her manicured hand. She wore a black tailored pantsuit with a belt cinched tight at the waist.