Sex and the Billionaire Crime Boss

Ch. 1: First Class

I settle into my seat for the flight from Philadelphia to Miami, crossing my arms over my chest. I let out a long exhale and rub absently at the slightly reddened spot on my arm. Some oblivious asshole in the boarding line splashed hot coffee on me because he was too busy making deals on his cell phone to watch where he was going.

Welcome to First Class. It's so not relaxing.

But since I didn't book the tickets, I didn't have a choice in the matter. It's just one more shining example of my grandfather's character. Affluent, snobby, and more concerned with appearances than substance.

I rest my head against the window covering, chest tightening, and ask myself again whether I'm making a huge mistake.

"Champagne?" A flight attendant appears in the aisle, a perfect glass of bubbly extended over the unoccupied seat next to me—which I'm hoping will stay empty.

I offer her a tight smile and shake my head. I made my decision, but that doesn't mean it's something to celebrate.

My father was against it, which is another issue I'll have to deal with. But in the end, curiosity and compassion got the better of me. They've always been my two defining traits, and have sometimes gotten me into trouble.

I'm just hoping this time is the exception.

I look up as a well-dressed man settles into the seat next to me. Armani suit and Ferragamo shoes. Exactly what I would expect in First Class. The flight attendant is there instantly, before he even sits down, to collect his suit jacket and put it in the narrow closet a few rows in front of us. His long-sleeve shirt is crisp white and looks like it was pressed five minutes ago. There are actual cufflinks at his wrists.

I'm wearing light-wash narrow leg jeans and ankle boots - it's February and the streets in Philadelphia are sloshy with melting snow - and one of the brushed cotton cuffed-sleeve t-shits I often wear under my suit jacket for work. It's one step up from casual wear. The coat I don't expect I'll need in Miami is folded and stashed in the overhead compartment.

I don't wear designer suits, not even in court. I've never cared about expensive clothes. Not that I could afford them anyway on a Public Defender's salary.

But I guess that's all about to change.

I've just taken a job as the head of the newly created criminal law section of the elite Miami law firm founded by my grandfather, who decided after completely ignoring me for all twenty-five years of my life to make me the heir apparent to his legal dynasty. Apparently at the age of seventy while recovering from heart surgery he has recognized his own mortality and prefers to pass on his legacy to an actual descendent. Which would be me.

I'm curious. And if what he told me about my grandmother - whom I've also never met - is true, then maybe it's time I forgave them for things that happened before I was born. Decisions that nonetheless altered the course of my life.

It's not an easy ask.

My seat mate declines the glass of champagne offered and, after a slight nod to me in greeting, opens a laptop and begins working.

He's wearing an unusual ring on his right hand, and I can't help staring at it as his fingers move over the keyboard. It's what I think they call a signet ring. Heavy and gold with some kind of symbol or lettering engraved on the face, with small, deep red gemstones embedded along the sides. It's on the pinky finger of his right hand; clearly not a wedding ring.

For some reason, the ring conjures up images of 19th century noblemen using an impression of the ring's engraving to seal important documents with wax. You would think it would be out of place on a modern executive wearing a business suit. But somehow, it suits him.