I Told the Mob Boss I Would Not Be Bought, So He Offered to Be Sold novel · Chapter 8 of 24

Chapter 8: The Bill

Anson's POV

I was at my desk at the warehouse at five in the morning with her signature in front of me.

I had put the invoice back in my jacket pocket last night and had not meant her to find it.

She had found it, and she had said nothing.

She had looked at it for a long time.

Then she had folded it along its old creases and handed it to me and said, "I'll ask you when I'm ready."

I had not said a word.

I sat in the dark office with my hand flat on the blotter.

The river was going gray in the window.

Fourteen months ago I had sat in a lawyer's office on Broad Street while a Marchant will was read aloud.

A daughter named Odette inherited a barn near Ravenel and the firm's reserve account.

The reserve account's last signature, eight years back, belonged to a nineteen-year-old clerk.

That was the night I learned the chest had never left the building.

I had searched seven winters for it, and it had sat in a tack room twenty miles from my own front door.

It had a padlock on it, and a girl asleep in the apartment over the office.

The lawyer had slid the paper across his desk and said, quietly, "Whit Pelham holds the note on that barn, Anson."

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