Page 170 of Deacon

‘Soon, Raff, I’m working on it.’

While he was at school that week, I reviewed new assignments for more Rolling Stone gigs that Sue sent over.

My feature with Six Sinners had been a massive hit, despite my missing a few of the key legs.

The photos I submitted of their New York and Chicago concerts fulfilled the brief, thank heavens.

Now the magazine editors wanted me to photograph a slew of high-profile musicians at VIP, high-ticket engagements, and for some of the ultra-famous, exclusive shoots in their homes.

It was a spectacular career pivot, but the professional win felt hollow without Deacon to share it with.

Four days later, Pia’s digital dossier landed in my inbox.

The financial records revealed that Massimo was cash-poor and broke, with quite a few gambling debts to offshore casinos, and needed a massive infusion of money to escape bankruptcy.

He also had to contend with his lover’s husband in court.

His prospects were not looking good.

He wasn’t trying to win me back; it was clear his stunt in Chicago was about extorting me by selling fake scandals to the tabloids for a quick payout.

Even though I’d suspected as much, the truth still numbed me.

I stared at the file for a long time, the pieces clicking together, hardened my resolve, and texted Max’s number.

Two days later, the gloomy afternoon sky cast a dull gray pallor across my home office.

The air outside was humid and still, yet crackling with energy, a tense preamble to a storm that refused to break.

I pulled up the FaceTime app on my screen and tapped Max’s contact name.

We’d agreed to 2 p.m. Nashville time for the virtual meeting.

Much was at stake, and I hoped he’d show.

My attorney, Maria Duggan, also sat on the line, dialed in from her downtown workplace, ready to log the interaction.

Max’s face flashed onto the display.

A cluttered, messy background filled the frame behind him.

He was in his two-bedroom townhouse in Milan, which he seemed to have let go of.

His handsome face was leaner, and dark circles bruised the skin under his bloodshot eyes.

‘Ciao, bella,’ he murmured, a lazy smirk pulling at his lips. ‘You look gorgeous, Ana. Still the prettiest woman in any room.’

‘Save it, Massimo,’ I snapped, brushing aside his hollow flattery. ‘Let’s skip the small talk. I hired a private investigator. I have your complete file. I know you’ve been hit with a legal suit from Tonelli Olivetti, plus you’ve got a few gambling debts I never knew about until now. You’re broke,’ I muttered, my tone biting.

Max jolted, his jaw dropping in shock at my intel.

He swallowed hard, running a hand over his thick stubble as his cocky facade evaporated.

‘Am I right to assume you need money?’

He nodded, his bravado gone, replaced by sheer dread.

‘How much of a float do you need?’ I pressed, taking advantage of his panic.