Max is all business on the plane ride back to Miami.
Gabe leaves us alone, apparently sensing there is something going on.
It just seems so strange that only two days ago I was sitting in the same seat, heading for New York City, and wondering if I would be able to stick to my resolve to keep things strictly business between Max and me.
Well, I guess we answered that question.
And now it's Max who has made the decision that our personal relationship is over.
Part of me wishes we could just make a clean break. But another part of me is glad that even though we are no longer going to be lovers, I'll still be interacting with him on some level, at least until the contracts and other documents for the art gallery deal are completed.
"So tell me exactly how this works," I say to Max.
He looks over at me. "How what works?"
Us, I want to say. Us spending time together but not being together anymore.
But I don't say that. Instead I say, "Gino and Joey D's interest in owning an art gallery. I get that money laundering must be part of it, but you could use any business for that. What is it about an art gallery that makes them so interested?"
He hesitates, like he's not sure he wants to fill me in, then apparently decides it makes sense for me to understand exactly what I'm getting into.
"As I assume you've figured out, buying and selling art does provide an excellent opportunity to invest the proceeds of illegal activities in art purchased privately overseas, then legitimize it by selling the art through a reputable gallery, sometimes privately and sometimes at auction. But there are many more opportunities an art gallery affords as a shield for other transactions."
"Like what?" I'm not only concerned about protecting myself from being pulled deeper into illegal activities. I'm also genuinely interested in how all this works.
"Well," Max says, leaning back in his seat and taking a sip from the glass of bourbon he's been swirling absently in his hand, "a piece of art could be 'on loan' to a gallery as security for payment in a business deal. It can be bartered or used as actual currency. The art world often works on a cash basis, and it's not unusual for the actual price paid to be confidential. The value is subjective, and often outrageous. Discounted pricing comes into play, as well as charitable donations that mask other more clandestine transactions.
"It's common for art collectors to make purchases through intermediaries, or using a corporate entity established for the purpose, while the identity of the real party in interest is kept confidential. No one questions that."
He gestures with his free hand as he explains, and I try not to be distracted by thoughts of that same hand stroking my body Saturday night. I wish I were sitting across a table from him again like this morning, instead of side by side in the luxury seats of his private jet, close enough that I can smell his cologne and sense the heat coming from his body.
"Frankly," Max continues, "the possibilities are as limitless as the creativity of those involved."
I nod, forcing my thoughts back to art deals and away from sex. What he's describing makes sense, although it's something I never would have thought of. "So it makes it relatively easy to hide the actual financial transaction and even the parties involved."
"Not just relatively easy," Max confirms, "ridiculously easy."
"It's a conduit for all kinds of . . . arrangements."
"Exactly. Then there are the commissions paid to the owners of the gallery, another way to generate legitimate revenues - at least on the surface."
"I see now why Gino and Joey D are so interested in your gallery." I give him a sidelong look. "And why you own one in the first place."
Max smiles. "I do have a legitimate interest in art. But I won't deny it's also been a convenient vehicle for certain financial transactions over the years. My current partners - the ones who are ready to retire to their villa in France - are legitimate connoisseurs and very respected in the art world. That's a large part of how the gallery has maintained its reputation."
"And that reputation makes it even more valuable to Gino and Joey D."
"Of course." Max sets his glass down. His face takes on an expression of calculation. "I'll probably allow them to retain a nominal interest, and keep them both on the board of directors. They present an excellent face for the gallery."
"And they'll do what you ask?"
"Of course," he says, and it reminds me once again the kind of power Max wields as if it's his birthright. And I suppose it is.
"Your involvement in the legal structuring," Max continues, "will only enhance that aura of respectability, given the reputation of your grandfather's firm."
"I don't know how comfortable I am with this." I've spent my entire life estranged from my grandfather. But that doesn't mean I'm prepared to use the cover of his law firm to provide illicit legal services to Max and his cohorts.
He seems to read my mind, and places his hand over mine reassuringly. "Don't worry, Hadley, the legal documents you draft will be completely above-board. There's no reason for you to have any involvement at all with the underlying transactions."
I look down at my hand covered by his. I wish I could be that certain.
"I'm still trying to figure out how I explain getting out of my lane to do transactional work."
Max shrugs. "Just because your background is criminal law doesn't mean you can't do a little business law on the side, now that you're part of a law firm that offers that instead of a state employee in the public defender's office. Besides, if you really do expect to run that firm someday, I'd think you would want to pick up a little experience in some of the other areas it practices. And Andrew will probably actually encourage it."
"Maybe." It sounds simple enough. But I'm learning that nothing with Max is ever exactly what it seems.
* * *
As soon as Max and Gabe drop me off at my building, I text Martina. I've never been more grateful to have a friend than I am right now. She is literally the only person I can talk about any of this to, and the last thing I want to do is sit around my borrowed condo alone this evening worrying about my role in the art deal, and wishing things could be different with Max.
When I tell her I haven't eaten yet, she says she'll be right over with pizza. After my weekend of fancy restaurants and top shelf beverages, I think a pizza and a bottle of the sangria I stocked in my fridge hits exactly the right note.
An hour later we're sitting on the floor in the living room with the pizza box open on the coffee table, and two-thirds of the bottle of sangria gone already. We look like twins in oversize t-shirts and yoga pants, and I'm pouring out my heart in a girl-talk kind of way I don't think I've done since middle school.
The way I've been rambling on about art galleries, a dinner meeting that came right out of The Godfather, the woman who tried to grab me in the bathroom of Gino's club, and the romantic night with Max that blew up in my face, I'm surprised she's able to make sense of any of it.
"So hold on," she says, focusing in on the part I admittedly downplayed, "are you telling me that someone actually attacked you in the ladies room of Gino's club?"
"That's what happened."
"Dammit I knew Gabe should have invited me along. If I'd been there you wouldn't have been walking into the bathroom by yourself while he stood outside the door without a clue."
"I don't think Max or Gino had any idea something like that could happen."
"Yeah."
Martina lifts another slice of pizza out of the box and takes a bite, then sighs in satisfaction. "We really should make this a regular thing."
"No argument from me." At the moment, I'm sick of all the complications my life has turned into. Eating pizza and drinking wine with my new BFF is a welcome relief. Any minute now we'll be segueing into telling each other what jackasses men are.
But right now, Martina wants to know more about what happened at the club.
"You have to admit it's downright ballsy to make a grab for you in a mob-owned club."
I shrug and take a long drink of my wine. "She might not even have realized that. I'm still wondering if it was just some random druggie looking for money to get a fix."
Martina looks skeptical. "You don't really believe that, do you? Not after what's been going on around here. I mean, that's just too much of a coincidence."
"I don't know. I suppose so, but I saw a drug deal going on right next to the VIP table I was sitting at. I think that club is full of people wanting to make those kinds of connections."
"I guess you could be right. What did Max think?"
"He doesn't believe in coincidences. I got the feeling he has some theories about what happened, but he didn't share them."
"Oh sure," Martina scoffs, "why share his suspicions with you. You're only the person who almost got assaulted."
I give a little involuntary shudder as I remember the whispered words, Come with me or I'll cut you.
"I love it though that you smashed her nose. Fucking bitch."
"Yeah. Those self-defense classes I took back in Philly actually paid off. It worked." I lean back against the edge of the couch. "I wish I'd turned around and got a look at her, though. But I just flew out the door."
"Girl, she had a knife. That wasn't the time to stop for introductions."
Then I tell her about the whole on again off again crazy thing with Max, but I don't share what he told me about his mother, or the fact that the Claddaugh bracelet that even now is on my wrist belonged to Nora. All of that just feels too personal. Like telling even Martina would be betraying Max in some way.
Instead, I tell her how frustrating it is that after having this really intimate night, he then decides I was right all along last week and we can't be together.
"Well," Martina says gently, "you are kind of right. I mean, I'm fine with what he did to Ramon Suarez. The little shit deserved it. But you're not okay with it, and there's probably a lot more going on that you wouldn't be fine with."
"It doesn't bother you?"
She shrugs, takes another sip of her sangria. "Not really. But I'm not a lawyer. It's not my job to uphold the criminal justice system."
"It kind of is," I tell her, "since you work for me."
Martina gives a short laugh. "Yeah, but I'm just getting a paycheck. You're a true believer."
It's midnight before Martina grabs an Uber and heads home. I fall into bed exhausted. I'll probably pay in the morning for drinking so much Sangria tonight, but for now I'm just happy the wine has made me sleepy enough to pretty much drop into sleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.
Too much happened this weekend, and right now I don't want to think about any of it.
I especially don't want to think about how much I'd rather be lying in Max's bed tonight.
* * *
I'm next in line at the coffee shop near my office the next morning when I get a text message on my phone. It's from Martina, asking if I'm on my way in.
I text back: Yes, just getting coffee. Is anything wrong?
Your grandfather just came by your office looking for you. There some kind of meeting happening in the conference room, but he wouldn't tell me what it's about.
Oh, crap. This is all I need is some client crisis first thing Monday morning when I was up late Sunday drinking sangria. Probably another big shot wealthy client of the firm, with a spoiled kid who's got himself arrested and now they need me to rescue him from the consequences. I've handled more of those cases than I'd like to in the short time I've been with the office.
I text Martina back that I'm on my way, then decide to get the coffee order first. Depending on what emergency my grandfather is summoning me for, I might need it.
And I have a headache. The wine - and Martina's company - helped me get through what would have otherwise been a rough night, but in the light of day I can't avoid replaying in my mind over and over again Max telling me it's really over. And yeah, I know. I was the one who told Max we couldn't be together in the first place. But now that he agrees with me, the empty sad feeling in my chest just won't go away. All I can think about is how we made love Saturday night and that I'll probably never be close like that to him again.
The barista gives me a cheerful smile and takes my coffee order, and I move to the side.
I'll still see him, of course. There's the new deal with Gino and the art gallery and I know Malcolm will be in touch probably this week and I'll have to talk to Max about those details. But he made it very clear that we are not together anymore.
I get my coffee and head out the door. By the time I finish the short walk to the building, half my latte is gone and the throbbing in my head is reduced to a dull ache. Thank you, caffeine.
The elevator whisks me up to the main floor of the office, and I step out to see Dylan leaning against the reception counter flirting with Jenny. Typical. He's probably lurking trying to find out what's going on in the conference room, since he wasn't invited.
I trust that guy less every time I see him.
"Oh, good, you're here," Jenny chirps as soon as she sees me. "They're waiting for you in the main conference room. Mr. Reese said you should go right in."
I walk past Dylan and down the hall to the recessed doorway, appreciating the fact that there are no glass paneled walls on the conference room to provide a few from the lobby. Whatever meeting is going on that I'm about to join, the one thing I'm certain of is that it's none of Dylan's business.
I open the door and walk into the conference room, and stop dead in my tracks. My grandfather is sitting at the head of the table. On the other side, with their backs facing the windows are a man and a woman, both wearing dark suits.
It's the man I can't take my eyes off.
The very same man who has been following me, and who tried to force me into a car last week.
Who the hell is he and what is he doing here?