At 2:13 A.m., She Drank Alone — Unaware The Mafia Boss Had Been Watching Her All Night
## Chapter 2
The reality was crashing down on her. The tequila was supposed to numb the betrayal of the affair, but it was the terror of the financial crime that was keeping her awake.
Declan watched her shoulders shake as a silent sob racked her small frame. He felt an entirely unfamiliar sensation coil in his chest. It wasn’t pity. Declan Fitzpatrick didn’t know the meaning of the word. It was a primal, territorial pull.
He stood up, buttoning his bespoke midnight blue suit jacket. “Handle Carmichael,” Declan ordered Liam, his eyes locked on the woman at the bar. “I have some business to attend to.”
The stool next to Meline scraped softly against the hardwood floor. She didn’t look up, assuming it was just another late-night drunk looking for company. “Seat’s taken,” she muttered, staring intensely at the amber liquid at the bottom of her glass. “By a ghost, it seems,” a deep, smooth voice replied.
Meline turned her head, her breath catching slightly in her throat. The man sitting beside her wasn’t a rambling drunk. He exuded an aura of absolute power. He was staggeringly handsome, with sharp aristocratic features, dark hair swept back with careless precision, and eyes the color of shattered storm clouds, the kind of face that belonged on the cover of a magazine profile she would never have believed the true contents of.
The scent of him, cedarwood, expensive tobacco, and a hint of gunpowder, cut through the haze of the alcohol. “I prefer drinking alone,” Meline said, trying to summon a glare, though her red, puffy eyes ruined the effect.
Declan signaled the bartender, Harvey, with a microscopic nod. Within seconds, a fresh glass of ice and a bottle of twenty-year-old bourbon appeared before him. “A woman drinking alone at 2:13 a.m. on a Tuesday in a place like this isn’t looking for solitude,” Declan observed calmly, pouring himself a measure. “She’s looking to forget something or someone.” He glanced deliberately at the discarded diamond ring on the bar.
Meline felt a defensive spark ignite in her chest. “It’s really none of your business. But if you must know, I’m celebrating.” “Celebrating?” “Yes. Celebrating the sudden and violent implosion of my entire life,” she said, letting out a hollow, bitter laugh. The tequila had loosened her tongue, stripping away her usual cautious, auditor-like filter. “I found out today that my fiancé is a lying, cheating sociopath.”
Declan took a slow sip of his bourbon. “Many men are, but most women don’t look over their shoulder every thirty seconds like they’re expecting a hitman to walk through the door.” Meline stiffened, her heart hammering against her ribs. “How did he notice that?” “You’re very observant,” she whispered, her grip tightening on her glass.
“It’s my job to observe,” Declan replied softly. “You’re an auditor, aren’t you? You have ink stains on the side of your left index finger, standard for someone who still reviews hard-copy ledgers. Your coat is high quality but practical, and you just correctly identified a man as a sociopath rather than just a jerk, which means you found something more than lipstick on a collar.”
Meline stared at him, genuinely unnerved. “Who are you?” “My name is Declan,” he said, offering nothing more. “And you are Meline?” Her blood ran cold. The alcohol haze evaporated instantly. “How do you know my name?”
“Because, Meline,” Declan shifted closer, the sheer physical mass of him completely blocking her off from the rest of the room. His voice dropped to a low, lethal whisper meant only for her ears. “The man you were engaged to, Bradley Carmichael, works for me.”