The Don Tore Up Our Divorce (Gemma and Cassian) novel Chapter 182

**Before Rain Touches Earth Memories Return With Gentle Warmth by Eli Dane Crest 182**

**Chapter 182**

**Gemma’s POV**

I lift my chin defiantly, steeling myself for the negotiation that I know is about to unfold. The air feels charged with anticipation, and I can already sense the weight of the impending discussion pressing down on my shoulders.

With a firm grip, I clutch the strap of my bag, my resolve hardening. I’m prepared to walk away from this offer if it doesn’t meet my expectations. There’s no way I’m going to concede on that figure, even if Smith decides to launch into a lecture about market values or the typical salary range for this position.

But to my astonishment, he doesn’t argue at all. He doesn’t even take a moment to collect his thoughts or draw in a breath.

A broad smile spreads across his face, lighting up his features. “Done! Five hundred thousand a month. Welcome to the team, Moonlight.”

Just like that?

For what feels like an eternity, I stand there, my eyes locked on his, utterly speechless. I can feel Zina’s gaze burning into me from the side. When I finally glance over at her, the expression on her face screams, “Damn it, we could’ve asked for more!” It’s practically written in bold letters across her features.

I have to stifle a giggle, forcing myself to regain my composure. There’s still one crucial condition that remains unaddressed.

“That’s acceptable, but I still want to meet your son before I make my decision.”

Smith’s eyes twinkle with a hint of amusement. “Of course, just follow me. This way…”

He gestures for us to follow him down a corridor different from the one we entered. As we walk, I can’t help but notice the armed guards stationed at regular intervals, their presence a stark reminder of the world I’m stepping into. The hallways twist and turn, a labyrinth that feels designed to disorient.

While I navigate the maze, my thoughts drift to the information I’ve gathered about the Nassau Island Mafia. In all my research, I found not a single clue that indicated Smith had children. The realization sends a shiver down my spine… just how extensive is his influence? How well has he curated his public persona? What are the odds that I’m about to meet a façade, a carefully constructed illusion?

As we venture deeper into the building, the dull thuds that echoed earlier morph into sharp, jarring cracks that sound alarmingly like gunfire.

We arrive at an observation deck that overlooks a shooting range. Through the glass wall, which vibrates with each shot fired, I can see dummies clad in combat gear, lined up in a precise formation.

In the center of it all stands a solitary figure, methodically reloading his weapon.

“That’s him, my son… Mikhail,” Smith states, pride evident in his voice.

The young man is clad in camouflage, his rifle raised expertly, his stance exuding confidence. Mikhail fires off ten rounds in rapid succession, and our eyes dart to the target, where the bullets have struck dead center—either in the skull or the heart.

Not a single shot goes astray, yet Mikhail appears unfazed by his own precision. He simply reloads and continues his relentless assault. Zina trails behind us, her silence heavy with judgment, ready to dissect every detail for my benefit.

“Is he professionally trained?” I inquire, curiosity piqued.

“Former military. I had him leave after a few incidents,” Smith replies, his tone casual but laced with something deeper.

I turn my head sharply. “Incidents?”

“Yes, let’s just say he found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he says, clearly dodging the specifics.

My curiosity intensifies, but before I can press further, Mikhail steps back from the booth and removes his protective gear.

The glass barrier is too thick for him to hear our conversation, but now I can clearly see his face… and recognition washes over me.

He’s the same man I encountered in the jeep this morning—the one who dismissed us as worthless and incompetent simply because we were women.

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