Chapter 3
AERYN
When I lived in New York and attended classes at the New York Culinary Institute, I spent every spare moment in a restaurant. Morning, noon, and night, I explored new-to-me food. There was always a new flavor to try, another dish to discover.
I never thought about all the other things New York City had to offer.
I skipped a visit to the Statue of Liberty.
I never went to the top of the Empire State Building.
I didn’t set foot inside the Metropolitan Museum of Art, or the Guggenheim, or the Whitney.
I certainly didn’t make time for anything as frivolous as the precision dancing of the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall.
I was a feckin’ eejit.
The Christmas show is glorious. Thirty-six women fill the stage for dance number after dance number.
They tell the Christmas story, complete with live animals.
They bring full-size tourist buses on stage, dancing on the steps and in the windows.
They dress as identical tin soldiers, turning in military-sharp lines until they collapse in breathtaking slow motion.
The last number is one of their famous kicklines, their ankles stretching eyebrow-high as the audience roars with applause.
I join the standing ovation, clapping until my palms sting. “That was incredible!” I say, clutching Gage’s arm as the house lights finally come up.
His smile is indulgent. “I’m glad you liked it.”
“I loved it!”
He shakes his head. “That’s not the way we do things here in New York. You never want to seem too enthusiastic.”
I try to give him a disapproving glare. “But if I am enthusiastic—”
“Let’s go, motherf—” Trap Prince starts to say. He’s our host for the evening, the billionaire in charge of all the other billionaires. I’ve known him for little more than two hours, and I’ve already learned that swearing comes more easily to him than breathing.
But his fiancée, Alix, cuts him off with a sharp elbow to his ribs. “Look at that sweet dress,” she says, nodding toward a little girl dressed in Christmas velvet. The child’s mother gives Alix an approving nod.
“Let’s go, friends,” Trap corrects himself with a pained smile. “They’re expecting us upstairs for dinner in fifteen minutes.”
Several people in our party laugh. One man—I think Gage said he’s in insurance—fakes a sneeze that sounds suspiciously like the word whipped.
Alix just clutches Trap’s arm and cuddles close to his side.
He makes a show of raising his eyebrows in a silent response that stirs something deep beneath my belly. Alix blushes.
Our group follows Trap up the aisle and across the theater lobby. He’s a natural leader—broad-shouldered and loud-voiced, with an intensity that makes me understand why a dozen captains of industry have chosen to do business with him.
Not just industry—organized crime, too.
I didn’t get a chance to speak with Braiden Kelly—the captain of Philadelphia’s Irish mob—before the show began.
Gage and I slipped into our seats just as the theater lights dimmed.
That was my fault; I kept Gage waiting almost half an hour in the Waldorf lobby as I changed outfits again and again and again.
Da always says I’ll be late to my own funeral. I say that’s my right, growing up the only girl in a regular gang of heathens. But now it’s time to make amends with Kelly, for the benefit of the South Side Squad.
I purposely drop back as our group approaches the elevators in the lobby of 30 Rock. The Philadelphia boss is deep in conversation with a man who is sweating in his winter-weight brown suit. Kelly’s gaze is hard as lapis when he finally looks my way.
“General,” I say, nodding my head in a gesture of respect. Braiden Kelly isn’t just captain of the Philly mob. He’s general of all the Irish crime families in America. He’s my own da’s boss.
The man Kelly was speaking with has taken a step back.
I don’t know if he’s versed in the rankings of Irish mob families.
I hope so, because I can’t wait to drop my family name.
Maybe that will make him break off staring at my chest, as if my Carolina Herrera cashmere turtleneck is some sort of engraved invitation for his drooling attention.
“Aeryn,” Kelly says, with a slight dip of his chin. I’m surprised he knows my name. But then I remember it’s his business to know everything about every clan in the country. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Before I can respond, Kelly reaches past me. “Rider,” he says, shaking Gage’s hand.
“Of course you two know each other,” Gage says.
He smiles as he says it, keeping his tone light, but I feel the faint pressure of his fingertips at the small of my back, sending sparks up my spine to the lizard parts of my brain.
Gage has followed me across the bronze-and-marble lobby and squared up to Kelly, as if he’s willing to fight for my honor if I give him half a sign.
He can’t be naive about what such a gesture could cost him. His words prove he knows Kelly’s role with the mob. Maybe he just doesn’t care. Gage was always good in a fight, for all the years he played hockey. Until that last one. The one that cost Logan his life.
Kelly is eyeing me politely, his eyebrows just raised. I say, “Gage and I are old friends. When he found out I was alone in New York without plans on the Saturday before Christmas, he invited me to tag along.”
This isn’t a mob function; Kelly holds no actual power at this event.
I’ve fulfilled my duty, recognizing his status with his title.
He acknowledges as much by gesturing toward the elevator that has just arrived.
“Please,” he says to me, letting me enter first. Gage joins us, along with half our party.
The sweat-soaked man squeezes in at the last moment. He stands, facing us, as the elevator soars to the top of the building. I cross my arms over my chest.
Kelly’s quick eyes notice, but he merely turns to his wife. “Samantha, this is Aeryn Reardon, from Chicago. Aeryn, Samantha.”
Samantha’s smile is generous. I’ve heard stories about her. Every woman born into a mob family has. She serves as Braiden Kelly’s Clan Chief—his second in command—a rank no other woman has held.
And yet there’s one Irish mob woman with a rank higher than Samantha.
That’s Fiona Ingram Moran, the ruling Queen of the Boston clan.
And she’s standing by the hostess stand, talking to Trap Prince like they’re old friends.
She’s part of the Diamond Ring too, a point I would have realized if Gage and I had arrived at the theater on time.
Samantha brushes a kiss against Kelly’s cheek.
“We’ll join you in a moment,” she says. “Alix?” She draws the attention of Trap’s fiancée, then includes me with a gesture.
I smile at Gage before the three of us follow the signs down a short hall to a restroom.
Half a dozen gleaming doors sit across from matching sinks.
We pause, though, in a softly lit lounge the size of an airplane hangar.
Samantha drops her clutch purse on a ledge in front of a smoked glass mirror. “Alix,” she says. “You have got to get Roger Turner out of the Diamond Ring.”
Alix laughs. “You served as the freeport’s General Counsel for how many years? You know Trap will put up with just about anything from his top billionaire clients.”
“If that slimy toad delivers one more compliment straight to my breasts, I can’t be responsible for what Braiden does.”
So, the sweat-soaked man has a name. “Maybe Gage can knock out a couple of his teeth,” I volunteer, checking my lipstick in the mirror. “Just as a general service to female-kind,” I say.
Alix eyes both of our reflections. “Frogs are slimy,” she says to Samantha. “Not toads. I’ll ask Trap to say something to Turner. Again.”
The lounge door opens, and Fiona Moran slips inside. “Are we talking about Roger Turner?”
“Of course,” Samantha says.
“Did he bring his wife tonight? I didn’t see anyone out there miserable enough to be married to that asshole.”
Alix shakes her head. “She sent her regrets last month, when the invitations went out.”
“Maybe he isn’t really married,” Fiona says.
She twists her neck as she glances in the mirror, eyeing her arse in her Balenciaga suit.
I’d give Gran’s recipe for Guinness chocolate cake just to add that outfit to my collection.
I realize Fiona isn’t wearing anything beneath her tailored jacket.
It’s a good look, one I need to remember.
“He’s married,” Alix says. “He’s just a horn-dog cocksucker.”
Samantha grins at her in the mirror. “I see you’re embracing Trap’s vocabulary tonight.”
Alix shrugs and looks at me. “Sorry, Aeryn,” she says. “Once upon a time, I was a respectable girl.”
I offer my own shrug. “Sometimes you have to call a gobshite wanker a gobshite wanker.” All three of the women laugh.
Samantha runs a finger under her eyeliner as she asks, “So how do you know Gage, Aeryn?”
I choose the simplest answer. “He was my brother’s best friend.”
Was.
My answer hangs there for a beat too long and I rush to cover the silence. “I hadn’t seen him for ages, for almost ten years. But a friend took me to his club last night and—”
“You’ve been to Kynk!” Samantha’s voice is full of sing-song longing, like I’ve opened a present she hoped to find beneath her own Christmas tree.
Fiona’s eyes widen. “What’s it really like?” she asks.
“I wasn’t… I didn’t actually…” A toilet flushes as I fumble my answer. I saw the club, sure. But I didn’t really participate. Not after Gage found me at the bar.
Samantha turns to Alix. “You’ve been there. Come on. Spill.”
Alix should be laughing. She should be sharing naughty details or—if she’s coy—teasing about what she’s done in the secret halls of Brooklyn.
Instead, her face has gone still. She stares into the middle of the room, her eyes flat, unseeing.
“Alix?” Samantha asks, her voice suddenly soft with concern.
“Are you talking about Kynk?” comes a voice from across the room.
I look up to find a woman wiping her hands on a thick white towel.
She’s tall like a dancer, and thin like one too.
I suspect Roger Turner wouldn’t bother staring at her chest; she has the athletic build of a boy. “That’s where I met Connor.”
“Jaq!” Samantha exclaims, a little too boisterous, a shade too bright. “Tell us what we’re missing!” She waves the newcomer over, but part of her attention is still on Alix. As Jaq joins our little circle, Alix shakes off her stillness with a determined shudder.
Fiona pushes for details. “Is there really a stage? Did you play out scenes in public?”
Jaq grins and tosses her towel into a woven basket in the corner. “That first night, Connor took me to his private room.”
“And?” Samantha urges.
Jaq wrinkles her nose. “I’m not the type to kiss and tell.”
Fiona smiles slyly. “Not even to your new best friends?”
Jaq shakes her head.
Fiona wheedles. “Just tell us what you were wearing.”
Jaq laughs. “My old school uniform. Plaid skirt. White top. Knee socks and saddle shoes. All of it about two sizes too small.”
Fiona’s eyebrows rise. “That sounds like it has potential…”
This time we all laugh—even Alix. But then she fishes her phone out of her pocket. Glancing at the screen, she says, “Text from Trap. He wants to know if we’re planning on staying in here all night.”
Jaq shoots a shy look at us in the mirror. “Really? That’s an option? We can just stay here?”
Samantha squares her shoulders. “If I stay, I’ll face consequences.”
Fiona quips, “You might consequence three or four times tonight, if you’re lucky.”
Jaq looks longingly toward the stalls until Alix touches her shoulder. “You know Connor is lurking in some corner, not saying a word to anyone. We need you to bring out his better side.” Her glance takes in all of us. “Let’s go, ladies.”
The gentlemen stand when we reach our private dining room. Gage pulls out my chair, leaning close to my ear as I settle into place. “I’m afraid to ask what you found to talk about for so long.”
“You should be,” I say, with a wink. Before he can retort, the servers descend with a first course of Oysters Rockefeller.
The meal unfolds like some sort of fairytale feast. We’re a party of twenty-four. There should be glitches in service, food served too cold, wine served too warm. But everything about the meal is perfect—the flavors and the pacing and the relaxed conversation.
Gage listens to my raves about the menu, about the exquisite wine pairings that feature obscure bottles I’ve never tried before. He never jokes about my hearty appetite, never asks if I have a hollow leg, never questions where I put all the food I’m enjoying.
Jaq and Connor leave first. Fiona’s next to go, whispering in the ear of the man she came with, cocking a hip before she bids a sassy Merry Christmas to the room.
Gage clears his throat and swallows the last of his brandy. I pride myself on my ability to take a hint. We say our goodbyes and step into an empty elevator.
“What?” Gage asks, eyeing me in the polished metal door.
“I didn’t think I’d have such a good time tonight.”
He pretends to take a shot to the heart. “What every man wants to hear.”
“You know what I mean,” I say, bumping him with my hip. “But honestly, this was perfect. The Rockettes. The meal. The company.” The elevator door opens, and we step into the building lobby. “I don’t want it to end.”
The second the words are out of my mouth, I realize they could make everything awkward. It’s nearly midnight. We’re both adults. “Not ending” generally leads to one place.
And as attractive as I find Gage Rider, as I’ve always found Gage, I’m not sure heading to his bed is my best option. Not with the anniversary of Logan’s death on Monday night. Not when I’m flying back to Chicago on Tuesday morning.
Gage must think the same thing, because he doesn’t give me one of his easy golden-retriever smiles.
He doesn’t wink and act like the consummate host. He doesn’t even twist a lock of my hair around his finger, the way he always did ten years ago, when we were working out the choreography for our dance of desire.
Instead, he asks, “You’re serious?”
I nod.
“Then I have an idea for one last stop.” He pauses as if he can feel the misapprehension that flutters beneath my breastbone. “If, that is, you’re up for it.”