Caterina
“Sweetheart, sorry to miss you…”
As soon as the message starts, I realize that I can only expect bad news.
Good news deserves in-person delivery. When Nino or Father make a choice they know I won’t like, they call in the late afternoon during the workday when the chances of me answering are lower.
I rub the bridge of my nose and keep listening to my father’s voice.
“You didn’t know your Uncle Aroldo, but some years ago, Shane Gallagher caught him in Kings territory and tortured him.
Asphyxiation gone wrong. He was brain damaged and never the same.
Now, knowing that, who’s to say what state Sal’s in?
We can’t confirm a fair trade, so no alliance. We’ll take it from here.”
They’ll take it from here? Take what?
My father’s never kept me out of the loop quite like this before.
Shit.
Nino got to him while I was busy working.
Leaving me out of negotiations—out of decisions—has become standard practice for Nino these days.
This irritating habit of his will get us all killed.
I spent the morning running casualty reports from missions we’ve done with the Russians, and our numbers are dire. Every time we act with them, Riccis come out on the bottom. For every one of theirs, we lose three men.
The Kings—Irish here, Port in LA—have equally dismal numbers. They’re not winning against Grigori Rostov and his Roguilin band either.
Both options seem disastrous as allies. We won’t survive on our own, though, and Finn’s as trustworthy as anyone.
I don’t get my way every time. Hell, I don’t even get my way half the time, and that’s okay. I’m happy to sacrifice my wants for the family. For my family.
This feels different, though. I don’t understand why my father and brother refuse to play the smart game.
Grabbing my faux shearling coat and a cashmere scarf, I wander from my office and out to Clayfield Park. This hidden gem behind the museum is never busy, and I often find myself hiding here when I need to clear my head.
On my way in this morning, I stopped by my favorite deli. I pull half of the pepper, eggplant, and tomato sandwich from the bag and take a bite. Once flavor pops in my mouth, my frazzled nerves ease a little. Sometimes food works as a distraction technique.
A hangry Cat is no fun.
Though engrossed in my late lunch, I catch the blur at the corner of my eye as someone sits down on the other side of the bench.
“Hi, sexy.”
I nearly choke on my sandwich.
Connor Gallagher smiles, the other half of my sandwich somehow suddenly on his lap.
“Go away.” I shoo him. “This is my bench.”
He relaxes, one elbow perched on the back of the seat. “Your house…your bench. Is there anything you don’t own in this city?” He sighs, acting like the most beleaguered belle at the ball. I hate him so much. “I brought you a gift. Don’t you want to see it?”
“You have nothing I want.”
Connor’s mouth drops open in mock-offense. “You don’t even know what it is.”
I’m not entertaining this jerk.
As I stand and tighten my scarf, he flicks his thumb over his phone.
“Dane…”
My insides shrivel as my tinny recorded voice spills from his speakers. I slump back to the bench, all the strength zapped from my limbs.
Connor smirks. The bastard couldn’t appear more smug as the recording of our night together at the Desmond plays on his phone.
Shame and rage swirl together in my chest, inseparable. I can’t decide if I want to die or kill Connor. Maybe both.
Though the park is empty, I smother the phone’s speaker with my hands and hit him with the dirtiest glower I can muster. “What do you want? You’ve had your fun. We’re done.”
Connor slips his blessedly silent phone into his coat pocket. “They agreed to the prisoner exchange, not the alliance.”
I keep my face neutral and my eyes on my food.
Shit, shit, shit.
Father said as much on the voicemail, and I realize that’s probably not all Nino’s got planned. He’ll likely reject the Kings in some grand way.
What does Connor know?
If we’re lucky, nothing more than this.
Connor subjects the sandwich in his lap to a curious once-over. “The deal’s not off entirely, and I’m a patient man. I can play the long game. In the meantime, either agree to spend time with me, or else this baby goes viral.” He pats his pocket.
This man is evil incarnate. How the hell did I let this happen?
“What’d I ever do to you?”
Oops. I intended for that comment to remain inside my head.
My father and Nino still set up the prisoner exchange?
They’re testing him? No, that’s not Nino’s style.
It’s an ambush.
“Come on, Cat. Don’t be such a sourpuss.” He touches my chin, pulling my eyes to his. “Penny for your thoughts?” His fingertips leave tingles on my skin.
I push his hand down and plaster on my biggest grin. “Just imagining jamming a stiletto through your balls.”
Those brown eyes glitter with interest. “That’s the spirit.”
He inches closer, orange and woodsmoke invading my nose. I cross my legs and shift away from him. Though I’ve lost my appetite, I take a big bite of my sandwich.
I don’t have time for liars.
He drapes a long, muscled arm along the bench behind me. “Hostile posturing’s not going to hurt my feelings, but Dane Ryder would appreciate a little respect, especially if his J. Rochelle, a piece Curator Pruitt creamed his pants over, remains with the Cosmopolitan.”
I whip my head around to glare. “Do you ever shut up? I’m trying to eat.”
He grins and leans back, just a little.
Asshole.
My boss did love the piece.
And art dealing is my second favorite pastime, next to swimming. I won’t let go of Rain on Jupiter unless we exhaust all other options, and I sure as shit refuse to allow a video of my sexcapades to go viral.
I can play nice. A little. As long as Connor behaves.
From the corner of my eye, I see him lift the other half of my sandwich.
Irritation prickles under my skin. “You better pay me for—”
“Holy shit. This is so good.” He inhales two more giant bites while practically moaning.
Well. At least he’s got taste. “It’s from the deli around the corner. One of my favorites.”
“I can see why.” He catches a falling bell pepper between his teeth. “Fucking delicious.”
As he devours that half of my sandwich—and I am going to insist on him repaying me—I can almost see past Connor the Mobster and Dane the Art Dealer to whatever lies beneath both. He licks sauce from his fingertips in an almost childlike manner.
He looks…honest. Like a kid.
Where’s this guy been? Why can’t he talk to me instead of the version that lies and torments me for kicks?
I’m open to an alliance if he’d just stop being such a prick.
After finishing the other half of my sandwich and wiping crumbs from his shirt, Connor finally remembers that I exist. “I like what you do for a living, by the way. Your ‘cover,’ or however you describe it.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m sure.” If “like” means using me to get an in with my boss and my family, sure. I believe him.
“Seriously.” He glances over at the museum building. “I don’t have any sort of passion or anything like that. I’m Declan’s underboss. That’s all I’ve got.”
I nearly snort. “Are you for real right now? Are you trying to bond? Are we friends?”
“Why not?” Connor offers a sharp and not-at-all-friendly grin. “We’re in the same line of work. We like the same sandwich. Plus, there’s the art connection. You like the Mona Lisa, and Dane Ryder likes the Mona Lisa—”
I do scoff at that. “I don’t, actually.”
He faces me, one leg crossed over his knee. “Who doesn’t like Mona Lisa?”
“Me.” I wipe my fingers on my napkin and mirror his pose.
He holds my gaze, sincere curiosity on his gorgeous face. His cologne wafts to my nose again, tickling my throat.
This man’s unfairly handsome. Even when he’s just talking about artwork, those dark eyes pierce mine like daggers. My heart thumps against my ribs, trembling under his scrutiny.
I pull my scarf up over my mouth and nose and focus on how much I hate him instead of how good he smells and looks. “Just because Mommy and Daddy’s money bought a J. Rochelle that’ll draw a younger audience and you walked it into the building without tripping doesn’t mean you know shit about art.”
“I know the Renaissance was boring as fuck. The art was too subtle. Picasso shook things up. You might like to stand in the background, but your taste is bold and daring. A face with a landscape of a hillside behind it? Hardly. No, you want your art to breathe, to have a backstory.” He lowers his voice.
“A few bullet holes through Marilyn’s forehead.
You like it messy and fearless.” He arches an eyebrow, that smirk back on his lips. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
The air punches from my lungs, and my head spins.
This bastard.
How the hell does he know my art preferences? We spent a combined total of six hours together, and he’s somehow an expert on my opinion on the Renaissance? Aware that my favorite piece is Andy Warhol’s Shot Marilyns?
I hate that he’s right. So much so that I want to claw his eyes out and feed them to the winter ducks.
Why won’t he let me fade into the background where I belong?
I pick a bread crumb he missed off his wool coat. He’ll not get the best of me. “Don’t think you know me just because your alter ego got me drunk and saw me naked.”
“Oh, but what a glorious sight it was.” He closes in, his lids low over his eyes.
“I wouldn’t mind another round with you, Kitty Cat.
” His voice rumbles through me, pooling warmth in my stomach.
“Or maybe I’ll commission a Pop Art piece of you to hang on my wall.
Four silk screen images, your beautiful body in paint. ”
His fingers absently graze the area between my shoulder blades, and the caress shivers over my skin, causing my thighs to clench together. A deep ache forms in my core as I picture him nude and erect and hovering over me.
Shake it off, Cat.
“Why are you here, Connor?”
“It’s ‘Dane Ryder’ by daylight, especially when we’re discussing art.”
I roll my eyes and shove his shoulder. He hardly even twitches. “That name is so dumb.”
“You said it sounded like the name of a movie star the other night. You loved it.” He reaches up with his free hand and smooths a loose hair off my face. “What would you name yourself if you needed an alias?”
My temple tingles where his fingertip brushed my skin, but I force myself to remain still. I won’t let him see me react.
He tilts his head, raising an expectant eyebrow.
“I don’t know.” I cross my arms, giving myself a moment to consider the question. “I’d probably do something boring and mesh the names of two famous artists together. Georgia…Claudel.”
He grins. “I changed my mind. I want a four by four of your pussy on my wall, à la O’Keefe.”
A laugh bubbles out of me, and I shove him harder, managing to get some distance this time. “You’re such a pig.” The fact that he’s funny doesn’t help. “Seriously, Dane, what do you want?”
He leans back and shrugs. “Just…this. To talk to you. Get to know you.”
But why?
I don’t even know where to look. The hair, the face, the height, the shoulders, the chest, the hands, the clothes… I’d bet money that he even has hot feet.
I shake my head, disappointed in my own thoughts and the way they’re betraying me. “You want to know me? Impress me with something from your line of work. Connor Gallagher’s work.”
He hums and taps his fingers on his knee, and I attempt to block out the memory of them trailing over my skin.
“After the latest FBI raids, the Riccis need new airline smuggling routes.”
He’s right. We do. I’m not surprised he possesses that information, but I am surprised that we keep agreeing on how my family should operate. First the Russians, and now this.
I lift my chin, feigning boredom. “Hardly impressive.
He holds out his palm like a Price is Right model. “Quid pro quo, Cat. Your turn.”
At least this tête à tête is finally becoming productive. “Perla told us what you made her do. And she gave us your payoff. We destroyed all the bugs you planted at the Ricci estate.”
He’s probably already aware, since his camera feeds should have gone dark at some point last night, but he has the manners to look impressed all the same.
“Sorry about that. Can’t be too careful in this business. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course. Which is why I don’t trust you.” I aim a big phony smile at him. “But you might be able to fix that. Can you deliver on new smuggling routes? That might convince Eduardo to view your proposed alliance more favorably. I’ll even put in a good word for you.”
I won’t, but two can play his game. If he insists on lugging me along, I won’t roll over and surrender.
Connor gets close again, pressing his thigh against mine. Energy crackles in the air between us.
“I can deliver.” Though his face closes off, his low voice hums straight through my bones. “But you’re the only one in your family I want to deal with. I respect your father, but he’s very unwell.”
I stare at him, trying not to reveal my genuine surprise. Connor—Declan’s heir, someone trusted by Finn Gallagher to act as his mouthpiece—wants to work with me? In the grand scheme of things, I’m nobody. Sure, I’ve got my father’s respect, but Nino’s the next head. There’s no way…
I must take too long to reply, because Connor clears his throat impatiently and lowers his voice even more. “Forget the family politics, Cat. We could run this city. You and me. What do you think?”
My head spins at the mere idea. Me? Running the city, with Connor Gallagher at my side? Impossible.
I’m no one. Simply the daughter of a mob boss and the older sister of the future Ricci head.
I also know Connor’s just toying with me. He’s nothing more than a liar.
I study him for a minute, my gaze flicking between his dark eyes. Then I smile. “I think you think our sexual attraction is concealing the fact that I know you can’t deliver. You have no say with Finn and very little with Declan. Underboss is just a fancy term for message boy.”
Connor’s perma-grin vanishes. The actor, the liar, the con artist all disappear. His features blank into smooth, handsome stone.
Maybe I went too far, but I won’t take back my words.
If I’m wrong, he’ll just have to prove it to me.
I rise to my feet. “Have the day you deserve, Connor-Dane.”
I leave him on the bench, his glare burning the back of my neck.