27. Michael
Michael
Ihave one arm slung over the back of a wooden chair, my bourbon glass sitting heavy and ignored on the scarred oak surface of the table in front of me.
Paintings are propped against paneled walls.
They’re stolen pieces from old European estates, oils cracked with age, spaced out so I can size them up without bullshit getting in the way.
They clash with the faint smell of grilled steak lingering from the main floor of the restaurant we’re in.
Rocco Mancini sits opposite, his stare fixed on me instead of the art he’s peddling. It tells me he’s more worried about what I’m going to say next than the paintings he’s trying to sell.
Marco stands to my right, notebook flipped open in his hand.
He’s been keeping notes on every word, glance, and hesitation.
My guys hold the door behind me. Mancini’s crew mirrors them across the space, but they’re off: one rocks on his heels, boot tapping the worn rug; another eyes the canvases, fingers flexing near his belt.
I let the quiet stretch. Then I shift my gaze to the nearest painting, taking it in piece by piece.
“Seventeenth century,” I say, nodding my head toward it.
“Late seventeenth,” he jumps in, words tumbling too fast.
“From where?”
“A private sale from an old family vault in Europe.”
It dangles there, thin as paper. Marco’s pen keeps moving. I turn to the next piece, a dark portrait, eyes staring, and give him nothing but the void of my disinterest.
He leans in, voice dropping low. “I can get you the documents, bills of sale, export stamps—"
“Can you?” I cut in, tone even. The room goes dead still.
I hold the silence a second longer, then lock eyes with him.
“That nonsense you spit out? You’re hoping I’d swallow it to wrap this up quick.”
His jaw locks, a muscle jumping in his cheek. I settle back, arm stretched along the chair. The threat hums under the surface. His guy by the wall shifts again, hand brushing his side. I flick my gaze back to the painting.
“Start over,” I tell him. “Give me something I can use. Or we end this here, and you deal with the fallout alone.”
An hour later, I shake Mancini’s hand and walk out.
“Make sure those get secured on the truck and back to the warehouse immediately,” Marco says behind me as I leave.
I don’t look back. I need a whiskey. I cut through the restaurant and take a seat at the end of the bar, choosing the spot that gives me a clear view of the room without anyone at my back. I lift a finger. The bartender is in front of me before it fully drops.
“What can I get you?”
“Whiskey. Neat.”
She smiles. I don’t.
I pull out my phone and check the time. Eight o’clock. Katie’s been at work for three hours. Luca texted when he picked them up, and again when he dropped them off. I don’t hesitate. I dial.
“Boss,” he answers.
“You parked outside?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
The bartender sets my drink in front of me, her hand lingering just a second longer than necessary. I take a drink, letting the burn settle before I speak again.
“Be at the door before their shift ends,” I say. “You walk them to the car. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Boss.”
I let a second pass, turning the glass once in my hand.
“And Luca.”
“Yes.”
“You and Sarah. Does she know anything?”
The silence stretches a little too long.
“She knows we’re cousins.”
Fuck.
“Katie knows?”
“Yes,” he says quietly.
I go still, the glass hovering just short of my mouth before I lower it back to the bar without taking a drink. “How do you know?”
“She asked—"
I cut him off before he can finish. “What did you say?”
“I told her our dads were brothers. That mine died when I was little.”
I drag a hand over my face, feeling the edge of irritation settle in under my skin as I stare down at the whiskey in my glass, watching the surface ripple from where I set it down.
“What else?”
“She asked why I call you Boss.”
“And?”
“I told her you like to keep things professional on the job.” He pauses. “But then she asked why I still called you Boss at her house last night.”
I wait.
“I said it was habit.”
I go still, my fingers tightening slightly around the glass as I stare at the amber liquid inside it. She didn’t fucking believe that. Not with the way she watches people, not with the questions she asks.
“You like this Sarah girl?” I ask. “You planning on seeing her again?”
“What?”
“Don’t act like you didn’t fucking hear me.”
The silence stretches long enough to irritate me.
“I don’t know. I don’t even know if that’s something she wants.”
I take a drink, slower this time.
“You’re going to figure it out,” I say. “I don’t need you telling her things before Katie knows. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Boss.”
I end the call without another word.
“Bad night, sweetheart?” the bartender asks reaching out to brush my hand.
I let out an irritated sigh and look up.
“You are delicious,” she says, smiling.
“I’m not sure my girlfriend would appreciate this little interaction,” I say, cold, picking up my glass and taking another sip.
“She doesn’t have to know.”
Her fingers slide over mine, and I grab her wrist, jerking her forward. Her eyes widen instantly.
“Not interested. Now leave me the fuck alone.”
I release her with enough force that she stumbles back a step before I turn toward the crowd again. Don’t mess with Michael motherfucking Amato.