Chapter 9
ROSALIE
The inevitable dinner at the marina finally came around, and I had no choice but to attend.
My mother had grown tired of my procrastination. The excuses I’d given were nothing but a worn record skipping on its spindle. She wanted me to marry as soon as possible. She didn’t believe in my superstitions, just like Daisy.
Perhaps the third man down would give them something to believe in.
Or maybe I really was in my head about it, and it had been nothing but an awful coincidence.
Ironically, as if mocking the stagnant state of my love life, “Right Back Where We Started From” by Maxine Nightingale played over the speakers.
The distant chatter of my family was barely audible with the harsh squeals of the gulls swooping above me.
The salty tang of the sea air whipped the bottom of my dress to the side.
My hair went along with it, flying in my face, clinging to the wet cherry gloss I wore on my lined lips.
The marina was my family’s chosen venue for dinners like these, clearly nothing but an excuse for them to huddle beside the boats to handle their shady dealings.
Inside the main hall, crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, and the polished floors stretched to the back wall—the one covered in Brooke’s latest collection.
I was jealous of my momma. She could have anything she wanted.
All she had to do was snap her fingers and my father would give in to her.
There was a chance—okay, a high possibility—neither Jackson nor Lucas could begin to afford Brooke’s art. The two paintings hanging in my apartment would become my complete collection if I married one of them.
Ironically, I preferred mobsters over officers for that reason alone.
The seats were filled with people wearing elegant suits and dresses, sharing champagne that cost more than five hundred a pop.
Standing near the walls, people nodded their heads at one another, acting as if they were interested in the conversation, but they never were.
This wasn’t about appreciation—not of any kind.
This was about keeping up appearances. Sharing the latest gossip while they exchanged business cards—ones that were embossed with titles that reeked of self-importance.
“Rose?” A voice cut through the air.
I turned quickly. Relief washed over me when I found Jackson standing beside me instead of Lucas.
He wore a smile that seemed genuine, and he was holding two flutes of champagne.
The mere thought of Lucas, the man my mother wanted me to pick, made me want to run for the hills. I really couldn’t handle his smell.
“Hey, you,” I offered back, accepting the flute with a deep sigh. The fizzy drink held no appeal to me. I didn’t like champagne—I liked martinis with an extra olive—but I didn’t have the heart to tell him.
Suddenly, my back felt warm. I could feel the heat of someone’s stare.
Across the room, a set of dark brown eyes locked onto mine.
Max, who was speaking to Marco and my father, had his attention on me.
He looked annoyed, irritated, and Jackson was most likely the culprit.
It seemed Max’s possessiveness knew no bounds—not even in front of his boss.
Someone needed to teach that dog how to heel.
The bottom of my heel dug into the floor, and my teeth found the inside of my cheek. I wanted to smile. Badly.
“You look beautiful in that dress,” Jackson said.
Finally, an excuse to let the smile loose. “Oh, you think so?” I asked, teasing for the sake of Max’s suffering.
“Know so.”
He could be charming, couldn’t he?
He looked tired, and I understood why. He had a two-year-old son with a woman who hadn’t turned out to be very motherly. I think my father was trying to find him a new wife, or at least someone who could take care of his kid. That was the only reason he was an option.
If I married him, that meant I’d be the one watching over his son. My life would be flipped over completely. I wasn’t ready to be a stepmom.
I was sure he’d figure it out. If not me, then maybe my sister, Daisy.
“Is your son here tonight?” I asked.
He turned his attention to the woman at a table near the corner. “He is.”
She was holding onto his son, Sebastian. He was the cutest thing ever—a carbon copy of his dad. He had the same hair, the same blue eyes, and the same dimpled smile.
Sebastian cut our conversation short by releasing a piercing scream.
“I apologize,” he said quickly.
“Don’t. Go take care of him,” I said with a smile. He turned, mirroring my expression before heading back to his son.
My gaze fell to where Max had been, but he was nowhere to be seen. It was just my father and a man I didn’t recognize.
My father only brought Max to events like this when he needed more security.
I wondered if this was what Valentina had been rambling about.
Thank God she couldn’t keep her mouth shut.
She was the talk of the town, which was the only reason I knew anything at all.
No one ever listened to her. Well, I did.
Everyone else thought she was crazy, and that assumption may or may not be deserved.
Valentina said a lot of the issues in my family were caused by the Romano and Genovese men. They could not be trusted. Neither could the Russians—and from what I’d heard while eavesdropping, they were trying to merge their bloodlines.
This didn’t shock me. After all, I’d spent my entire life growing up hearing about how much of a threat the Romanos were.
Dad had preached how they were liars, killers, and thieves.
He’d spent so much time separating the Irish Outfit from the toxicity that came with the Romanos’ last name, it would be a shame if it had all been for naught.
My father worked alone now, running the Irish Outfit by himself, because he was terrified of his family being associated with—let alone ruined by—the Romano name.
He had control over the docks, the unions, the politicians, and the cops, all while making us outcasts, forcing us to live a simple, null life.
Taking in a deep breath, I went to the bar in the hope of switching the champagne out for a martini. There, sitting at the far end, was Valentina. I watched her talk her way into a free flight of wine. Her boobs did most of the talking.
She wasn’t going to share the wine she had. A bottle was enough to get her tipsy, not drunk.
“Martini,” I asked one of the bartenders, but the chatter in the room was too loud for him to hear me. Frustration bubbled up as he glanced over my head, clearly ignoring me. I suddenly understood why Valentina ordered with her boobs.
Her eyes narrowed in what felt like a silent warning. Following her gaze, I turned my head to find a man approaching me from behind.
Max.
“Martini—extra olive,” he said, ordering for me.
“Oh,” I said, blushing. “Thank you.”
He fixed his gaze on my lips. “How many have you had?”
“Not enough to talk to you,” I admitted, biting down my smile. Just as expected, my palms began to sweat, and my teeth found the inside of my cheek.
“This is your last one,” he ordered.
“Gosh, you’re grumpy.” My eyes rolled—the usual response to his brooding tendencies.
“And you’re drunk,” he said. A barely-there smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
“At least I’ll wake up sober,” I remarked.
“Careful,” he demanded, stepping back and lifting a short glass of amber liquid—whiskey, most likely—to his lips. He didn’t care to entertain my theatrics. He never really did.
The smell of his cologne wafted past me, and my mind briefly wandered to his scent. That wasn’t a good idea. God, couldn’t the man at least smell?
I took the glass from him, my hand brushing against his cool fingers. Raising the glass to my lips, I stole a glance at him. His eyes locked on mine.
Taking a shuddering breath, I tipped the glass back. The liquid, a deep amber color, flooded my throat. It was fire. It was like swallowing boiling water. It seared a path all the way down.
“That’s . . .” I rasped, my voice strained, “strong.”
He looked at me, shocked, but also not entirely surprised. “Whiskey,” he informed me. “I would’ve warned you, though you never exactly gave me the opportunity.”
“Whiskey, huh?” I wheezed, still feeling the burn in my throat. “Figures you’d choose the drink that packs the hardest punch, just like everything else about you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is that right?” He took the empty drink back. “And what exactly is ‘everything else’ about me?”
The bartender placed a martini in front of me with an extra olive.
“That’s a rhetorical question, I hope.” I rolled my eyes. “I don’t have all night to talk about your brooding tendencies.”
“My brooding tendencies?” Max asked, amused.
“Uh-huh,” I mumbled as I lifted the glass, ready to take a sip, but instead I tipped the glass back. The burn of the alcohol seared a path down my throat. As I lowered the empty glass, Max’s gaze held mine. I lifted the toothpick and stabbed the olive, taking it between my teeth.
I chewed. He watched.
I smiled. He frowned.
“Thanks for the drink.” I licked my lips and left his sorry ass at the bar.
As I walked away, I knew he was watching me. He always did, but this time, it felt like he was following me. Just to be sure, I stopped a stranger.
“Is there a tall man in a black suit following me?”
The stranger squinted. Then, with a slow turn of his head, he looked behind me. “Yeah. He’s back there.”
I forced a tight smile. “Thanks,” I muttered before hurrying away.
The murmur of the dinner party faded slightly the farther away I got. My Valentinos continued to echo on the floor until I reached the other side of the wall, only a few feet away from the crowd. Max moved right by my side, his suit jacket brushing against my skin.
“The supervision,” I drawled, “isn’t exactly necessary.”