Deal
RONNY’S POV
“What do you want from me?”
The words were out before I even stepped fully into the room. I didn’t bother with small talk or admiring the skyline. Liliana Arthur wasn’t the kind of woman who invited you to the top floor of the Silver Palace for casual drinks.
She didn’t answer right away. She just smirked, lifting her wine glass to her lips in a way that felt rehearsed—like every movement was designed to keep you guessing.
“Aren’t you at least going to sit down?” she asked, her tone dripping with amusement.
“No,” I said flatly. “The sooner we’re done here, the better.”
If my bluntness bothered her, she didn’t show it. She turned away from me without another word, her silk dress catching the light as she walked toward a corner cabinet. From where I stood, I caught the faint clink of glass against wood, then the quiet slide of something being pulled out.
When she came back, she wasn’t holding more wine—she was holding an envelope.
She crossed the room and dropped it on the low glass table between us with a soft thud.
“Sit,” she said again.
This time, it wasn’t a suggestion.
I studied her face for a moment, weighing whether it was worth testing her patience, then decided it wasn’t. I lowered myself onto the couch, but not before giving her a look that said I wasn’t in the mood for games.
She sat opposite me, one long leg crossing over the other, and gestured toward the envelope. “Go on.”
I picked it up slowly, giving her a suspicious look before sliding my thumb under the flap. The paper was thick, expensive, the kind people used when they wanted to make sure you remembered holding it. Inside was a single photograph.
The woman staring back at me could’ve been Liliana’s twin—same striking red hair, same silver eyes, same air of elegance that made you think twice before speaking in her presence. But she was older, maybe in her late fifties. There was a maturity in her gaze, but also… a spark. The kind of sass you couldn’t fake.
“That’s my mother,” Liliana said before I could ask.
I looked up. “How does this have anything to do with me?”
“She died six months ago,” she replied evenly. “Official cause: accident. The police closed the case after two months.”
Her tone was calm, but I saw it—the way her jaw tightened, the way her hands curled into subtle fists against her knees.
“I take it you don’t agree with their conclusion,” I said.
Her silver eyes locked onto mine. “It wasn’t a fucking accident.”
There it was—the anger she’d tried to bury under her polished exterior.
I leaned back, resting the photo on my knee. “That still doesn’t explain why me. You could’ve gone to any number of private investigators.”
“I don’t want just anyone,” she said, voice steady but firm. “I want someone nobody can buy. Someone who doesn’t owe anyone favors. Someone I can trust completely.”
I raised a brow. “So you trust me?”
Her lips curled faintly, not into a smile but something sharper. “I’m giving you my mother’s case. What does that tell you?”
I looked down at the photograph again, then at the thick envelope still resting on the table. “And what if I don’t want to take it?”
For the first time since I met her, she hesitated. Then, to my surprise, she said quietly, “I don’t do this often, Ronny… but please. I need you to handle this. You’re my last hope at getting my mom justice.”
The words hung between us like smoke. I’d been hired plenty of times, but desperation—real desperation—wasn’t something I saw often. Not from people like Liliana Arthur.
I kept my face neutral, but inside, my mind was already moving, weighing the risks. Whoever killed her mother, if she was right, probably had power, money, and connections. People like that didn’t appreciate being investigated.
I exhaled slowly. “Fine. I’ll take the job.”
Relief flickered in her eyes for half a second before I added, “On one condition—our relationship stays strictly professional.”
Her smirk returned, as if she’d been expecting the condition all along. She extended her hand toward me. “Deal.”
I took her hand, her grip firm and cool against mine. “Deal.”
She released me, leaning back in her chair, wine glass poised elegantly in her other hand. “Good. Then let’s get started.”
But even as she said it, I knew something—this wasn’t going to be just another case.
***
The rest of the conversation flowed like a dance neither of us wanted to admit we were in. She slid the rest of the file toward me, and I opened it, scanning the first few pages. The official police report was in there—sterile, stripped of emotion, full of neat little boxes that made a woman’s death look like nothing more than an unfortunate statistic.
She watched me read, her gaze heavy enough to feel. “Do you believe in accidents, Ronny?” she asked suddenly.
“Sometimes,” I said without looking up. “But usually they happen to people who make mistakes. Or to people who trust the wrong people.”
Her lips twitched. “My mother didn’t make mistakes. And she sure as hell didn’t trust the wrong people.”
I closed the file. “Then whoever did this… was someone she never saw coming.”
Her eyes narrowed, like the thought had already been gnawing at her. “Exactly.”
I set the folder down, leaning forward. “If I take this case, I’m going to dig into everything—her business, her friends, her enemies, her personal life. That means I’ll need full access. No locked doors. No secrets. Can you handle that?”
“Can you?” she countered.
The corner of my mouth lifted. “Lady, you have no idea.”
For the first time, she actually laughed—a short, sharp sound that carried no warmth. “You might be exactly what I need.”
The clock on the wall ticked softly in the silence that followed. Outside, the city lights shimmered like they were waiting for something to happen.
And deep down, I knew something would.
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