Chapter 8
8
KATE
I t’s no big deal. I’m meeting the boss for a drink. It’s just to talk about work. Maybe there’s a project he wants me to work on. Or maybe Elaine bitched about how I didn’t change the toner in the copier and now he has to take a break from running his complex and largely illegal organized crime syndicate so he can deal with an HR issue involving his buddy’s annoying little sister.
Riley’s is how I remember it.
Mickey is already at a little table in the corner. He gets to his feet when I walk in the bar like we’re at some fancy supper and you have to stand up when the queen enters or something. The thought makes me laugh. I make my way through the cluster of tables set too close together in the little room that’s dominated by a gleaming, if nicked and scuffed, bar and a massive TV anchored above it.
“What’s got you laughing?” he asks after we sit.
“Nothing. I just thought of something funny.”
“Okay,” he says and doesn’t pursue it. A barmaid comes by and asks what we want.
“Get us some of the beer cheese dip with pretzels and you like spinach artichoke?” He asks me. I nod because who the hell doesn’t like that? “You can bring us that too. I’ll have a beer and she’ll have, what? Shirley Temple?” he teases.
“I’m twenty-seven, Mick.” I roll my eyes at him. “Vodka cranberry, please.”
“I never thought I’d be taking you to a bar,” he shakes his head like he can’t believe it.
“I grew up.”
“You sure as hell did,” he says, and something dark flashes in his eyes so quickly I almost convince myself I didn’t see it. Still, it makes me go warm all over, cross and uncross my legs beneath the little table. I accidentally kick him.
“Sorry,” I say, “Close quarters.” I try to hide the heat that rises up my neck in reaction to that accidental touch.
“Did you have a good day?” He asks, awkwardly attempting to make small talk.
“It was fine. You?”
“Not so good.”
“What happened?” I sit up straighter. I’m on alert.
“One of my employees had a heart attack.”
“Oh no! Is he okay?”
“He’s in ICU at Mass Gen now. They said he’s stable but he’s got kind of a long road ahead, rehab and all that to get back on his feet.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
“Me, too. He’s a good guy. And I depend on him. It’s Benny Ragucci.”
“Mr. Ragucci still works for you?” I ask. “I thought he was old when I was a kid.”
“He probably was. Were you in school with his daughter?”
“No, Jen was older than me,” I say. “Like five years.”
He nods and takes a long drink of his beer as the waitress delivers two big platters of apps that barely fit on our tiny table.
“I hope he makes a full recovery,” I say out of obligation.
I rip off part of a soft pretzel and dunk it in steaming hot cheese dip. I groan out loud.
“Good, right? They make it with Guinness,” he says. He scoops some up and nods in agreement, making an appreciative grunt of his own.
If I shut my eyes, I could imagine him making those noises from between my thighs. I press my legs together tighter and force the thought away. I shift in my seat, uncomfortable, sure that my cheeks are flaming and a familiar tug low in my belly pulses.
“This is where you come in,” he says a minute later.
“Hmm?” It’s all I manage to say.
“Ragucci’s down for the count for at least a few months. I need someone to take his place, someone I trust.”
“Who’s his second in command? Surely at his age he’s grooming someone to take over.”
“Yeah, the nephew,” the way he says nephew might as well be a slur. I know all I need to know about the man Ragucci’s training to take his place—unsuitable, slick or incompetent or both, but shady. Shady is a given from the tone of his voice alone.
“That good?” I say sarcastically.
“Whatever you’re imagining, make it worse, then add too much hair gel and a suit that looks like he got it on clearance at a factory outlet.”
“All suits 29.99?” I venture.
“That seems like he got ripped off if he paid 29.99 for it. Acts like—”
“A baller? I know the type. God, you should see them out in LA. Every guy that goes to the gym or has decent shoes acts like he’s just one audition, one dental floss commercial from getting to thank the Academy for his Oscar. They all know a guy and say they have an in .” I roll my eyes heavily.
“I bet you were besieged out there.”
“Besieged?” I lift an eyebrow.
“Surrounded? Bothered constantly in grocery stores and coffee shops and clubs, hounded by guys with shiny teeth and empty promises?”
“I wouldn’t say I was besieged or even especially popular. All you gotta be out in LA is easily impressed, that’s what they like. Somebody to look wide-eyed and amazed when they tell the same shitty story for the fifth time about how they’re gonna make it big or they got in on this crypto deal—it’s the fakest thing you’ve ever seen. They’re literally all the same. Every guy, the entire time I was out there.”
“None of those boys knew where to get good cheese dip?” he jokes. I give him a shrug.
“Nobody eats dairy or carbs so there wouldn’t be a market for cheese dip.”
“God forbid I should see that place,” he says with a mock shudder and I laugh.
“It’s not bad. A lot of the food was good, it’s just really healthy and there’s sprouts on everything.”
“Even dessert?”
“What’s dessert? Dessert is a spirulina algae smoothie with kale and whatever else gets blitzed in there to make it a muddy green color that tastes like a can of paint.”
“You’re not gonna get a job for the tourism board at this rate,” he says wryly.
“I’m not trying to convince you to go there,” I point out, “I’m just making conversation. You brought up the nephew .” I say the word just like he did, like it’s a major insult. He chuckles.
“Was I that obvious?”
“Worse,” I say.
“I want you to take over for Ragucci. Just till he’s back on his feet.”
I’m taken aback by the offer. It seemed like a huge opportunity, seeing that Ben was the chief accounting officer. With all the projects that Mickey runs, it seemed like a large amount of workload to take over. Plus, it might not all be legit.
“You have a team of finance guys, I bet. Surely one of them or three or four could handle this in Ragucci’s absence. They’ll know how he does things and have a feel for his methods. Be familiar with the software he likes, stuff like that,” I protest.
“You’re telling me you can’t do the work?”
“No, of course I can do the work,” I say hotly. “It’s not that. Rory would be so pissed if I worked for the real side of the business. He wants me on the fluffy side where it’s fully legal. I don’t know if he thinks I’ll turn to a life of crime and go knock over an ice cream shop for extra nickels or what.”
“You’re worried what your brother will think. That’s respectful, I like that, but he isn’t in charge of your decisions. You are. Do you want to learn the ropes behind the scenes at the Pearl?”
“The Pearl,” I repeat, tasting the word. A kick of adrenaline zips through me, excitement to peek behind the curtain at the illegal businesses and learn how they run. It could be educational—a chance to apply all the skills I learned to watch out for, obvious mistakes, sloppy cover-ups that could expose suspicious activity.
“I can give you a tour, then let you make up your mind.”
“I’d like a walk-through if you have half an hour,” I say, trying to dampen my enthusiasm and failing.
“It takes more than half an hour to see all the Pearl has to offer, but we can keep it brief. Are you considering my offer?”
“To step into Ragucci’s job for a couple of months? I’m a math nerd, always have been. Basically, it’s like you’re offering me a shiny new puzzle I’ve never solved before.”
I want that job. I want to prove to myself and maybe to him that even if I had to slink back from LA defeated, I’m smart and I’m the one who can run rings around old Mr. Ragucci. I’m sharp and hungry to show off my skills, I’m young and energetic. The two things holding me back are how Rory would see it—as putting myself at risk when I promised to work only in the legitimate and legal side of the organization. And the more palpable danger that I’ll make a fool of myself over the guy across the table from me, who would for sure be People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive if they featured crime bosses instead of just actors.
The practical voice in my head, the angel on my shoulder, reminds me that I don’t need a tour of the illegal gaming establishment where I’d be working because I can’t take the job. Spending time alone with Mickey O’Halloran isn’t going to strengthen my resolve to refuse his offer. I already have enough impure thoughts about him to fill up six or seven confessions.
Riding in a car with him, getting on the elevator just the two of us—there are too many possibilities. It’s not a half-hour tour, it’s a minefield of opportunities for me to act like a besotted jackass. It’s a hell of a reason to turn down a job I want—I’m too attracted to my boss. I can’t afford to work closely with him. One smile from him and my panties would fall right off. Not to mention the fact he needs a forensic accountant not someone who needs to go in a bathroom stall and shove my hand in my panties to take the edge off what he makes me feel.
My cheeks heat at the thought. It’s shameful. It’s humiliating. It’s something I actually need to do. I clear my throat and excuse myself.
In the tiny bar bathroom, I lock the stall door and lean my head back against it. I breathe in and out slowly, trying to calm my frenzied body. I shut my eyes for a second and that’s a mistake. Images flash through my mind.
Raking my nails down his bare back, urging him on.
His big hands spreading my knees wide and seeing the mess I’ve made of myself, the flushed wetness that makes every breath a terrible distraction. My damp panties are riding up between my plump lips, scraping against the tender spot where I want to touch. I could do this, just put one foot up on the toilet seat and plunge my hand into my panties and relieve the pressure. It might help me think straight and be less preoccupied with this ridiculous craving I have for him.
I stifle a moan as my fingers trace through the slippery wetness and skate along the swollen bud of my clit. I pant, hold back the noises I want to make while I stroke myself. Soon I’m rubbing hard and fast, frantic for release. It’s not enough. I shut my eyes and bite my lips, delve my fingers inside my throbbing pussy, wishing it were Mickey filling me up as I tremble and bite down on a cry.
I put myself back together, wash my hands, and splash cold water on my face. The pressure relieved, I’m able to think straight again and prepare to head back out into the bar.
I make my way through the crowd of other people crammed in at other small tables and reached my seat.
“Are you okay?” Mickey asks. He has real concern on his face and I wonder what he’d do if I told him why I was gone so long.
“I’m fine.”
“If you’re done eating, we can see about that tour,” he offers before I can sit back down.
“Okay,” I agree smoothly, eager to see the place. “Should I follow you or?”
“You can ride with me. We’ll get your car later.”
He opens the door for me and I feel embarrassed walking through it ahead of him.
“Are all the guys out in LA a piece of shit or what? You act like you never had a door opened for you.”
“I’m not sure I have,” I say with a shrug.
“You been hanging out with the wrong crowd then,” he says.
We drive in relative silence and soon arrive at our destination. He parks outside a building that looks like any other old brick building in this part of town. It’s a little nicer but nothing fancy and there’s no sign. Nothing to indicate what it is.
“I’ve probably driven by this a hundred times and never knew it was here,” I remark.
“That’s the idea. It doesn’t open for another hour so we have the place mostly to ourselves.” He takes me to a door around the side and enters a code, then scans a fob on his keyring.
We walk in and I half expect it to be a bank lobby or something similar. Instead, it’s beautiful. It doesn’t look like some shiny plastic Vegas casino. It looks like it belongs in an old movie. The carpet is thick and plush burgundy, the walls are covered with cream and gold wallpaper that shows rows of faint outlines of oysters.
The man inside the door wears a nice suit but he’s the size of two refrigerators so that tells me he would be the bouncer. He only nods. A woman at a reception desk gives a lipstick smile and tells us good evening.
“I’m giving a tour. I’m not in,” he says and she nods in reply. These people respect him, and they are not about wasting his time.
There’s a stairway to our left and a bright brass elevator straight ahead. I expect we’ll take the stairs so I can admire the restoration of the historic building but he places that big warm palm in the small of my back again. An intense shock of heat short circuits my entire body. I wonder how I’m not flopping around on the floor from the electrical current running through my veins. He guides me to the right and swipes the fob again to reveal a private elevator.
My eyes cut to his face and search for his gaze as if to see if he felt what I did. The shock of recognition, of searing lust that poured into me at his polite touch. The door slips shut on us and we’re in a small elevator, the floor marble, the walls mirrored, and the man beside me filling up every inch of space, crowding me and making me take in the scent of him, like leather and cigarette smoke and the burn of something sweet.
Our eyes lock for an instant. I register his shock and something feral and deep. His handsome face hardens, something dark flares in his eyes that draws an answering leap and swoop in my chest.
I swallow hard in the confines of the elevator. He steps in toward me, leans down. I don’t know what he’s going to do, but I’m positive I’ll let him. He lifts one big hand and brushes the backs of his fingers to my neck. My body jolts at the contact, frantic pulse thrumming against his fingers. I don’t know what to do, so I grab him. My fingers twine around his thick wrist to hold his hand there, right where it is.
Heat climbs my neck and flushes my cheeks. I can’t meet his eyes anymore. The moment is too charged, to vulnerable somehow. Later I’ll tell myself it’s just the confusion of a radioactive level of lust, that it’s nothing more intimate than that. My boss is hot, plus he’s Rory’s friend so there’s the added kick of forbidden fruit.
Just a cheesy leftover teenage crush ratcheted up by hormones and whatever wicked alchemy makes him smell so irresistible. Purely physical, that’s what I’ll tell myself. There’s no attraction on any other level. His objective off-the-charts sexiness and the aura of dark power he wields as head of the crime family make for an intoxicating blend.
The faint brush of his knuckles down the side of my throat is now his hand hot on my throat, holding my neck tenderly but with a hint of possession, that dominance that seems to be an intrinsic part of him. My thoughts scatter when I’m near him, which is surely not a good sign, and everything in the universe concentrates on the place where his hand is on my neck and I’m holding his wrist.
I feel the beat of his pulse, as quick as my own, pumping against my fingertip. I stroke the inside of his wrist and see and feel his reaction. A breath rushes out of him, and his eyes drop shut. He holds himself very still. With his eyes shut, mine feel free to roam his body. I see the unmistakable bulge in his expensive trousers. It makes my mouth go dry.
“Did you push the button?” I ask hoarsely.
“Button?” he frowns before the question registers.
He takes a step back, disentangling himself from me. I have no choice but to let go of his wrist even though I’d like to keep holding it. He steps to the panel and presses a button. The elevator begins to move and I grip the brass rail beside me. I’m no longer crowded in a corner by him but I still feel off balance. I want to say something, tell him he’s incredible and that I’ve had actual sex that was a lot less satisfying than him touching my neck in an elevator.
But I don’t.
When the doors slide open, I follow him to a door that unlocks with a code and a scan of his thumbprint. The room itself isn’t that large, but it’s beautiful. The walls are deep green and the wood trim is rich and old-fashioned. There’s a table that seats four, a couch and a couple of chairs, a bar cart in the corner. But the focal point is a broad window that covers the wall opposite the door. I go to the window and look out, or rather I look down. It’s an interior window that looks out over the main floor of the casino.
“That is some classy James Bond looking shit,” I mutter. He chuckles and I hear the warmth of his laugh close behind me.
“Glad you approve,” he says.
“I went out to Vegas with some friends last year. It was unbelievably tacky and crowded. So loud. Everywhere we went I just wanted to leave.”
“That’s bad for business. You want your customers to get comfortable, settle in, lose track of time.”
“Makes sense.”
“On the main floor, it’s just a mirror. I had it made when I took over, so I could watch the action without those below knowing they are being observed. When I’m not here there’s a floor manager who oversees the place and this is where he’s stationed during open hours.”
“So we could see them, but they can’t see us,” I say, my voice breathy and embarrassing.
“If there was anyone here, yeah, that’s the idea,” he says. “This is my favorite spot, but there’s more to the tour.”
He crosses the room and opens the door for me. “Make a right,” he instructs. We look in offices and an executive lounge, a big security space with a bay of surveillance monitors showing multiple locations throughout the building. All the exits, the hallways and stairwells, even the elevators. I try not to think about the guy who’s manning the surveillance hub watching the heavy breathing and the part where I gripped Mickey’s wrist in the elevator earlier. I remind myself that all the staff here is employed for discretion as well as skill. That doesn’t do much to calm my nerves though.
A few doors down from there, I meet Brad, the IT guy. He’s introduced to me with a longer title than that, but it’s pretty clear he’s the IT guy. He gets busy scanning my thumbprint and setting me up with a secure laptop. Once I’m equipped with that, we return to the first room. What Mickey calls the crow’s nest.
He takes out a tablet and starts showing me the latest quarterly report to give me an overview of the kind of numbers I’m dealing with and the budget allocation. I look around after a minute.
“Is there paper and a pen anywhere?” I ask.
He cracks a smile. “I should’ve known you would want to do this old school. Do you need a quill pen or is this okay?” he teases, offering me a pen from his inner pocket.
“I like to write things down.”
“You have a state-of-the-art encrypted laptop in front of you,” he points out.
“Sometimes you can’t replace a classic,” I counter.
He produces a notebook from a drawer and I jot down some thoughts on the projected earnings, the rough numbers on overhead and staffing. I fill a couple of pages and then look up at him.
“Okay, I’m ready,” I say.
He taps back to the chart and then loads a spreadsheet. I think my mouth drops open a little as I read it. It’s an intricate breakdown of the assets of the operation and The Pearl itself is worth even more than I anticipate. For something that has zero marketing budget, a casino hidden in plain sight, I expect a number significantly less than what I’m looking at.
“This is crazy,” I say.
“I’m good at what I do,” he remarks with a shrug.
“I’ll say.”
I go back to making notes, trying hard not to think about what other types of things he might be good at.