Caterina
It’s absolutely vile that on a day I’d love to sleep in, I’m obligated to attend a family meeting before noon. Especially after a night with a god like Dane Ryder.
Of course. You’re always on the clock, Cat.
We host most meetings in my father’s office at the Ricci estate, but today we’re in the den attached to my father’s room on the main floor.
The room is showy enough—classy black leather furniture, dark wood tables, a stone fireplace, eggshell walls covered in classic pastoral artwork—but our goal is comfort.
We all decided that Father should keep up appearances as a healthy, energetic leader, and limiting his physical movements preserves that image. The short walk from his bedroom to the den is easier on his body than traversing the whole house.
He’s got a tote-sized baggie full of pill bottles, but nothing helps, not even the IV fluids meant to filter the toxins that his liver can no longer handle.
Hepatic encephalopathy, they call it. I’ve researched what I can, and though the condition is supposed to be reversible, the treatment’s not working.
As a result, we’re forced to watch my father’s slow, uncomfortable decline toward death.
His doctors—the best in the world—say there’s nothing you can do if the meds don’t work.
I don’t believe that’s true.
Eduardo Ricci—crime boss, single father, my entire world—is a force. An anchor in the storm.
He’s the one who taught me how to swim. Encouraged my dreams. Told me to hold fast to one thing I love that’s not about duty or money or power. I’ve heeded that advice my whole life, seeking the balance between family and self that he insisted was so important.
“Find something that’s solely yours, Caterina. That is what will keep you sane.”
Ever since my mother’s death, my father assumed her role as well as his own. He raised my brother and me, gave us love and care and protection.
While it’s natural for a parent to die before their child…he’s only sixty. Still far too young.
Watching him fade, day after day, night after night, drives me mad. I refuse to believe we can’t stop this. That nothing we do will prevent his death.
My father’s everything to me. I cannot—will not—lose him like this.
Even as he slips closer to his grave, he tries to project the strength I grew up with.
His dark hair is still mostly gray-free, a blessing of good genes. He always styles with pomade and pulls it back off his face, even when he lies in bed all day. His honey brown eyes observe everything. To me, they’re kind, but to an enforcer or enemy, they’re firm and unyielding.
My father has always led our family with calm, quiet dignity. He may not treat me like one of the men, but he valued my opinion. He’s more forward thinking than any mafia boss I’ve ever met.
Nino struggles with that. He doesn’t appreciate my input or want anyone to realize my words carry just as much importance with our father as his. The pressure of family expectations weighs on him more than me, and he craves respect he has yet to earn.
Since we were kids, I’ve told Nino that I’m on his side. I’ve stood back and let him take the lead—and the credit—whenever it counted. Even so, he’s given me false information about meetings and dealings one too many times for those slips to be unintentional.
Every year, more suspicion blooms in his eyes.
His mistrust hurts. I’ve never done anything I know of to merit it, and we were close as children. The distance between us hooks my chest like a fish on a line, tugging at my soul every time Nino turns away.
I love him. I know he loves me. I just wish he would trust me again.
As long as I’m holding my father’s warm hand in mine, though, I can handle Nino’s rejection.
Family matters more than anything.
Those words repeat in my head as I hover at my dad’s side, waiting for this meeting with an Irish King.
Father sits in his favorite leather recliner, his suit pressed and his tie perfectly straight at his neck.
I brush a loose strand of hair off his forehead, tucking it in with the rest. “Can I make you some tea, Father?”
“That’d be lovely, sweetheart.” I’m glad his voice, despite a bit of breathiness, carries more strength than yesterday.
I head to the coffee bar beside the bay windows, where I fill his green mug with boiling water and plunk in a bag of his favorite herbal tea. While it steeps, I pour myself some coffee with cream and tear apart a blueberry muffin.
Thanks to Dane Ryder, the man who zoomed in and out of my life like a twenty-four-hour bug, I’m starving.
I’d have viewed our time together as a crazy erotic dream—too many trashy romance novels before bed will do that to you—if not for the note he left on the pillow and the delicious ache between my legs.
The fun last night exhausted me so much that I slept late, which I never do.
So I didn’t have time to stop for food before rushing home.
My insides buzz, inducing a calming, floaty sensation. My mind keeps circling back to his lips on my mouth, my neck, my nipples. The sex is on instant replay no matter how often I tell myself to focus.
Considering the Irish Kings will be here any minute, I need to get my brain under control. They’re proposing an alliance that Nino’s already called ludicrous, but my father wants to hear them out, and I do too.
They both know how I feel about working with the Russians. The Kings might not be much better, but at least the Gallaghers are locals. The Roguilin faction has only been in the city for a generation, if that.
Nino’s already gifted them too much. That contract I signed for him yesterday grants the Russians carte blanche access to Blue Hook Port as their entry point into the US.
Our port. One utilized by many families, not just us or the Russians. But they want exclusive access.
Oleg Belinski is the new right-hand man of the Roguilins’ current leader, Grigori Rostov, and he’s vile. He’s managed to dig his claws deep into Nino’s shoulders and influence every decision.
Even if the Russians won’t admit this, they’re using an alliance with us to facilitate their war with the Irish Kings. To gain their cooperation, we contribute our men and holdings.
In my opinion, we shouldn’t get involved with their feud.
Unfortunately, Nino doesn’t see things that way.
He likes the attention Belinski gives him, the promise of power.
Father, at least, can still be swayed. So I hope today’s meeting goes well.
Nino struts in, his green button-down shirt loose at the collar, his tattoos shining in the lamplight. “Father.” He grins at our dad, then gives me a nod. “Cat.”
I lift my coffee in greeting. “Happy New Year.”
“You too.” His eyes narrow, their familiar brown pinning me to the spot. “Why are you smiling?”
My father shifts, shooting Nino a strange look. “Is she not allowed to smile, son?” Even in his weakened state, he’s always protecting me.
“I mean, yeah. She’s just always so serious.” Nino rakes a hand through his dark hair, slicking it back more. “It’s weird.”
“I’m not smiling. I’m chewing.” I stuff another piece of muffin into my mouth as if to prove my point. If Nino studies me any longer, he’s going to know I got laid.
Not so long ago, I would’ve told him immediately.
As much as I miss those days, though, I’m not exactly keen to revisit them right this second. We’ve got too much to do, and our father doesn’t need to hear about my mind-blowing evening.
“Belinski’s satisfied with our new arrangement.” Nino grabs a black coffee and a warm pistachio croissant before sitting on the black couch closest to our father.
“You’re welcome.” I wrap my father’s fingers around the cup. “Be glad I managed to get that typed up and signed on top of all my other work yesterday.”
Nino slurps his coffee loudly, watching me from over the rim of his mug. I swallow the urge to roll my eyes as I take my seat behind Father, leaving the armchair on his other side empty. Seen but not heard.
After a soft knock on the door, Marlene, our house manager, enters the den. “Mr. Eduardo?”
“Yes, Marlene?” My father smiles before slowly sipping his tea.
She smooths a hand over her pristine gray bun. “Mr. Connor Gallagher is here for your appointment.”
“Thank you. Send him in.”
“They sent the fucking Gallagher from California?” Nino’s olive-toned neck goes scarlet beneath his ink, a bad sign considering we haven’t even started yet. “Finn couldn’t even bother to show? They sent a Port King instead? Does this guy even have Finn’s ear?”
Well, shit. This isn’t good.
“It’s fine, Nino.” I keep my voice soft and even, praying he won’t cause a scene. “It’s just a first meeting. Play nice.”
He glares, a vein in his forehead jumping. “Why should I?”
“Enough.” My father pins us with the “zip-it” look we learned to recognize as kids.
We’ve heard the rumors about Connor and Brody Gallagher, the brothers from LA.
Their father, Declan, runs the rival King faction on the West Coast. Brody recently defected, joining Finn and the Irish Kings here in New York, and Connor followed suit to broker a truce between the two branches of the family.
Beyond that, all we know for sure is that the Russians hate all the Kings, West and East Coast alike, but they have a special interest in destroying the Port Kings thanks to Brody killing a bunch of them in New Orleans. Including Andrei Kruschev, the man Oleg Belinski replaced.
I shove the rest of my muffin into my mouth and brace for the worst.
When the door opens again, Dane Ryder breezes through the threshold like he strutted off the cover of a magazine.
I nearly choke, drips of coffee spurting onto my black slacks.
Dane offers his hand to my father. “Mr. Ricci, I’m Connor Gallagher. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. Finn sends his apologies. Personal matters.”
His lips twitch as he quirks a brow at me.
A message. Nice to see you again.
This prick.
Rage hotter than the coffee currently burning my thighs floods through me. Who the hell does he think he is? What’s he even doing here?