Sex and the Billionaire Crime Boss

Ch. 9: The Real Deal

He gives a short laugh that comes out more like a grunt, and shakes his head slightly.

"Fine. But I have final say on what cases we accept or decline. With that one caveat, the decisions are yours."

"No." I'm shaking inside as I say it. I don't think my grandfather is accustomed to being told no. But if he really does want me to start a criminal law section - if that's not just some ruse to get me here for another purpose - then he needs to let me do it.

"No?"

"No. To build this practice area for the firm, I need autonomy. If you have an objection to a case I decide to take on - or want me to reevaluate one I'm refusing - I will of course weigh your concerns seriously. But the final decision is mine."

"You seem to be forgetting, Hadley, that this is my law firm. My name on the door."

I meet his gaze steely eye for steely eye. "This point is not negotiable."

"You'd walk away over this."

I answer him simply and directly. "Yes."

We continue to stare at each other for what feels like minutes but is probably less than 30 seconds. It just feels long.

Then surprisingly, he starts to laugh.

"You know the saying, be careful what you wish for because you just might get it? Well, I asked you to come here and hoped you'd have enough steel in your spine to deal with the reactions you'll be getting from people who think you're stepping right over them. I guess that also means you'll be standing up to me."

"When it matters enough."

He nods. "All right. You win on that one. But on the condition that we reevaluate how things are going in three months. And if at that point we both want to go forward, then you will make the commitment to stay for the full two years."

"After which I'll be your partner, with a 49% equity interest in the law firm."

"You have my word."

"I'd rather have your signature on this," I say. I've been taking notes. I write "Agreement" at the top of the page of my legal pad, sign my name at the bottom, then tear off the sheet of paper and push it across the desk to him.

"Don't you trust me?" he asks.

Trust him? I wonder if my mother trusted him once. Before he cut her off without a cent for reasons my father still refuses to share with me. Did she trust him to come to the rescue later when she and my dad had barely enough money left over to buy groceries after paying the medical bills insurance didn't cover?

Did you promise when she was a little girl to always take care of her, just as my father promised to always take care of me? Some fathers – like mine – keep their promises.

I already know what kind of father Andrew Reese was. What I don't know is why.

So I keep my face purposely blank as I look back at him.

"Trust has to be earned. I'll let you know when you have mine."

"That goes both ways, Hadley." But he signs it.

"That's fine," I say, then casually add, "By the way, I already have our first case for the new criminal law section. Nothing major – just a misdemeanor."

"Oh, what kind of case?"

"Domestic violence," I tell him.

He wrinkles his nose in distaste. "Well, that's not pleasant."

"Criminal law isn't pretty."

I don't like this kind of case either. But I'm not going to tell him that. I don't want him to question even for a moment whether I'm prepared to take on the tough cases.