52. CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
“Texting the Hottie McHottison?” Trista looks over my shoulder Saturday afternoon.
“That’s a Scottish accent you’re butchering, by the way.” I smile, putting my phone in my purse.
We take our trays of food and hunt down two seats.
This off-the-strip Korean deli is more of a heavenly buffet, but Trista didn’t mind the drive when I said I have some good sex gossip. Not only do I keep my friendship with her on the downlow, but I also don’t want anyone I know to see me pigging out.
I can’t help it, though.
Noodles. Dumplings. Sesame shrimp with pineapple. Barbeque short ribs.
“And yes, I’m texting McHottison.” I swirl the noodles around my plastic fork, take a bite, and swallow.
“Where is he?”
“He had to fly home to New York.” I bring more food to my lips and catch Trista staring at me with her jaw hinged open. I glance down to see if the whole noodle plate ended up on my fork. Seeing it wasn’t, I say, “What?”
“I only wish I was recording you.”
“Recording what?” I take a bite.
“The way you whined about him leaving.”
Did I whine?
“Im just tired.” I sip some diet Dr. Pepper. “We were up late having sex again last night.”
“How is it you didn’t open with this?” Trista leans in, eyes wide for details. “Dish.”
“We actually had a little…date.”
“Define littledate.”
“I was having dinner, or supposed to be having dinner with a lawyer whose firm worked with the Borgias.” All this is on record, and I don’t have to be cagey. “The Irish maniac followed me there, sat his gorgeous, taut ass at the bar and stared at me.” I roll my eyes. “So, I left with him.”
“And…”
“We went to this great piano bar, had drinks and tappas, and danced.”
The metallic slam of a Pepsi can makes me look up.
“That’s not a little date. That’s a full-on date. Especially since you fucked him after.”
“I like him. Other than the criminal part. What’s not to like?” I have to come up with more items to put in Eoghan’s Cons column.
“How was the sex? Did it live up to the first time, or was that night a fluke?”
“Even better if possible.” My phone beeps, and I laugh. “That’s him texting me again.”
“Again? You guys text back and forth?”
“Yeah, we do.” I smile at the photo he sent. “He’s got a new baby niece.”
I turn the phone around to show Trista, who squints. “Riordan’s baby?”
My brain twitches, and I cock my head. “How did you know that?”
Pursing her lips, she piles shredded beef into tortillas to make street tacos. “I did some digging on your hottie.”
She’ll be digging her grave if their hacker catches her snooping.
Heart pounding, I say, “Trista, be careful. Their brother is a world-class hacker. For all I know, I’m under surveillance, and that means you are, too. He’ll do a facial-recognition thing, hack into your computers…” I stop when the blood drains from her face.
“I never thought about that.”
We don’t often get mafia cases that include such high-level defendants like Lazaro Scava, the Borgia underboss committing such blatant money laundering. The Millennium Plaza, his brother’s stronghold, checked out. But according to the forensic investigators, all of Lazaro’s finances are off-the-charts irregular.
“Just know, the top three bosses are married,” Trista finishes. “And two of the brothers married both of the local Bratva daughters. Both! Do you have any idea how powerful that makes them?”
Lovely. And I’m fucking their consigliere. I have to be out of my mind.
“They seem like a tight-knit group.” I think back to the crowded defendants table on Black Friday.
“That clan,” Trista corrects. “Whispered informants say they are vicious if crossed. They have that little city locked.”
“Astoria?”
“Yeah. They make the rules. Sure, the main boss goes to fundraisers and throws his blood money around.” Trista knocks her head from side to side. “And sure, it goes to good causes, but it ensures no one questions him.”
“Smart. I guess.” These are killers I’m calling smart! “Sounds like the Irish rule Astoria.”
“Pretty much.”
“I already know about Riordan’s wife.” I swirl a chip in the salsa.
She’s former FBI and she married the underboss. That’s a woman I need to talk to, find out how she reconciled her commitment to law enforcement with her love for a murderer.
“Priscilla’s got a deeper story to tell, all right.” Trista eyes the ribs in my hands. “I’ll tell you her tragic past when you’re not eating. She’s one tough broad.”
Eoghan’s world is full of surprises with so many powerful women. But these men are as formidable as they are smart and wealthy, proving that alphas don’t necessarily want waifs as mates. It makes sense.
I clear my throat, eyes lowered, not feeling like I’m cut from the same material as those mafia wives. Eoghan doesn’t seem the type to do relationships. He’s a world-class flirt and can teach a masterclass in dirty-talk. Those guys are playboys and don’t marry.
Unless they’re forced into marriage. I don’t have anything to offer the O’Rourkes. No Cosa Nostra or Bratva house to come to heel. And I don’t need protection from anyone.
“Keep all of this to yourself.” I level my gaze at Trista. “Don’t even think of writing an article.”
“I’m actually thinking of writing a book.”
I drop my soda and catch it before it tips over. “That’s worse.”
“Fiction, silly. Mafia Romance is big. Don’t you read that genre with your book club?”
“Hmmm.” I think about what book we’re supposed to read next. “What Eoghan did to me was smutty, but it wasn’t romantic.”
He also never texted me back.
And damn, that bothers me…