2
He sounds defeated, and I should want to kill him to for dragging me into his problems again, but I just wish he would stay the fuck out of the casinos and do what’s right for all of us for once.
“Have you checked on Abigail?”
“No, he didn’t, but she’s fine.” Sienna walks out of the bedroom, glares at Mason, who is already checking out of the conversation. “What happened?”
“Long story.” I lower my voice; I don’t want to wake Abigail. Getting a cranky five-year-old back to sleep isn’t easy, and I’m not mentally prepared for another battle.
“You got fired, didn’t you?”
“I can still hear you,” Mason murmurs from beneath the slowly thawing packet on his face.
I usher Sienna into the kitchen and dump my purse on the counter. I don’t want her to worry about us, but I know that’s another battle I won’t win.
The burn scars on her neck and jawline are already turning livid, and she instinctively tugs the neckline of her sweater up to cover them. Sienna suffered third degree burns in a road traffic incident in the early hours of New Year’s Day five years ago. The driver, some guy she met in the same nightclub where I met Danny Zuko, climbed out of the wreckage and left her for dead; she only survived because I’d alerted the emergency services when I saw the missed calls on my cell phone.
Sienna’s version of events is that I saved her life, and I’m stuck with her. Which is why she’s here now, babysitting while I work, and Mason does whatever Mason does when he needs money to clear his debts.
My version is that I should never have left her in the nightclub that night to lose my virginity to Danny Zuko, the hottest man alive. The hottest man alive who must’ve been swallowed whole by a crack in the ground after I left him because I’ve never seen him again since.
I’ve looked. Believe me, I’ve looked.
That night changed everything, for both of us, and I’ll never stop trying to make it up to my best friend for as long as I live. Sienna wants to open her own art gallery, and one day, I’m going to make it happen. Even if I’m currently unemployed.
“What are you going to do, Vic?”
Sienna has offered to let me and Abigail, move in with her until we get straight, but I can’t leave Mason to fend for himself. What Killian did to him tonight would be nothing compared to the kind of mess my brother would get into if left to his own devices.
“I have a few favors I can call in.” I force a smile and fill the kettle to make coffee. “You look tired, Si. Stay over. We can make popcorn and watch a movie.” I hate that I only get to see my best friend when she’s looking after Abigail.
It’s about time both of us caught a break, and I tell myself to stay positive. Perhaps the Universe had that break in mind when it allowed Mason to mess with my job tonight and almost get himself killed.
“I can’t.” Sienna leans in and kisses my cheek. “Get some rest, Vic, and tell Mason that next time he fucks up your life, I’ll do more than bust up his eye.”
Sienna sees herself out. I don’t even drink my coffee when it’s made. By the time I’ve showered and warned Mason that he’s taking Abigail to kindergarten in the morning, I can barely keep my eyes open.
Next thing I know, my alarm is going off, and I’m asleep next to Abigail on top of my comforter with a damp towel still wrapped around my hair.
I kiss her forehead and smooth her hair, the same color as mine, away from her rosy face. It’s the third time this week I’ve come home from work and left again without seeing her awake, and it hurts my heart. But being unemployed will only make our lives a hundred times worse because whose bed would she be sleeping in then?
Thirty minutes later, I’m walking into the lobby of the Wraith, feeling seriously underdressed in black slacks and a white shirt. Interview outfit. Minus the ‘lucky’ prefix. I’m a hard worker, but even though there are almost nine million people in New York, Mason’s reputation clings to us both like Velcro.
My flat pumps click dully across the black marble floor. I’ve been here a couple times, and it still takes my breath away. Heavy chandeliers hang from the atrium ceiling reflecting a million tiny black stars across the floor and the glass facade, creating the kind of spectacular three-sixty image that wouldn’t look out of place in a Broadway show. Even the reception desk is sleek black with gold trimming, the woman sitting behind the desk dressed in an emerald and gold pantsuit.
I try tiptoeing, but it’s too late, the security guard has already spotted me and is heading my way.
“I’m here to see Denise Cartwright,” I blurt out before he can flash me a look that says I’m in the wrong place and I should turn myself around and march straight back outside where I belong.
“Vicky!”
Denise hurries over to me, taking control by encasing my hand in both of hers and leading me through a black archway that shimmers with gold and into the restaurant where she works as manager. Denise manages every food outlet connected to the Wraith and Caleb Murray’s ever-expanding empire.
She was also my mom’s best friend and her first NA sponsor when she was trying to get clean. It was Denise who introduced my mom to Quincy, her new husband, too. It won’t be the first time she has bailed me out of a situation created by Mason because she feels responsible for us, and I don’t like taking advantage of her, but needs must.
Inside the restaurant’s entrance, I breathe in the aroma of expensive coffee and chocolate and ignore my stomach growling back at me. Several tables are occupied by guests taking an early breakfast, and it would almost feel cozy if every item of gold-trimmed furniture didn’t cost more than I can earn in a year.
Deep breath. “Sorry, Denise, but I need a favor.”
Denise’s expression doesn’t alter. “Let me guess, Mason.”
Tears well in my eyes, and I blink them away furiously. “It’s an emergency. You know I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate. I just need a gig to hold me over until I sort something long-term.”
Her mouth twists, and I already know what the answer is going to be.
“Please, Denise, I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”
“I don’t have any server positions at any of the Murray venues right now.” She furrows her brow. “I’m sifting through applications to fill the Exec Concierge position though. If you want to temp it, I can?—”
“I’ll take it.” Jeez, I hate sounding so desperate and try to hide it behind a smile.
“It’s a tough gig, Vic.”
“I don’t care. What do I have to do?”
Denise sighs loudly as if already regretting this. “Whatever Mr. Murray wants, you make sure he gets it. You’ll liaise with his personal assistant, Lauren. Call her Miss Ingram, please. She’s a power-hungry queen who likes to think that the Wraith is her ship, but she’s got her finger on every button, and when she tells Mr. Murray she doesn’t like something, it’s goodnight before you can blink.”
“Got it.” My pulse is racing, and it isn’t with gratitude that Denise has bailed me out. Again.
“You’ll be taking a big job off my hands while I run the restaurant.” Denise looks at me from beneath lowered brows like she hasn’t quite stressed how important this is.
I nod. “When do I start?”
“Meet me here at one-thirty. I can get you fitted with a uniform and show you around before the shift starts.”
One-thirty. I imprint the time on my brain as I thank Denise and step back out into the real world where smoke pours out of the drains and people don’t apologize for barging into you while they’re too busy talking on their phones to see what’s right in front of them.
Mr. Murray. I’m going to be working for Caleb Murray, albeit temporarily, and I can’t help remembering the touch of his hands on my arms when he stopped me from getting hurt outside the diner.
Chapter 2
Caleb
I eat at my desk as usual. I barely taste the food most evenings. The chef knows what I like, and I leave it to him to prepare whatever he wants. I could be a diva about it, but I’ve got bigger things to worry about.
Like my brother Cash’s nightclub getting raided again. Third time since the holidays, and no fucker can tell me it’s a coincidence.
My phone vibrates. Another message from Olivia Dragonetti.
Tonight’s the night, Caleb.
“Fuck!”
Olivia and I dated for a while back when the Wraith was first built, and I believed that a connection with her family would get me up the ladder without climbing the rungs in the middle.
It was fine for the first few months. Olivia Dragonetti has the kind of looks that got Elizabeth Taylor where she wanted to be. Raven-black hair, dark eyes, high cheekbones, she even has a tiny beauty spot on her upper lip that people mimicked centuries ago with silk patches.
But she’s a girl who’s used to getting what she wants, no matter how she gets it.
Her unannounced visits to the Wraith started happening more frequently, at all times of the day and night. Olivia would barge into my office, her eyes roaming the room while Lauren glared at her from the doorway, mouthing an apology for not warning me in advance. One morning, she was waiting for me to come down from the penthouse suite, completely naked in my leather chair, legs spread wide and feet on my desk.
“Surprise.”
My brother Kyle had already warned me that she’d earned a bit of a bunny-boiler reputation when she followed her ex to his new girlfriend’s apartment, waited for him to leave, and then broke in and shredded every item of clothing the woman possessed including the bathrobe she was wearing at the time, and wrote on her butt cheeks with black marker pen: NEXT TIME I WON’T BE SO NICE.
Olivia was seventeen at the time. And Daddy made the situation go away.
I tried ending our relationship the decent way. I told her that I wasn’t ready for commitment, that I wanted to focus on my business, that we were both too young. The usual excuses. I even rolled out the typical it-isn’t-you-it’s-me cop out, although it was one hundred percent fucking her.
I didn’t need that shit then.
I still don’t need that shit now.
But she wouldn’t believe me now even if I promised her that there was no one else. That there’d been no one else for five years, three months, and twelve fucking days, not that I was counting.
No one that lived up to Sandy anyways.
Sure, there’d been other one-night stands—I was only fucking human—but I’d had every private investigator in the city try to find Sandy for me, and every one of them had drawn a blank.
I was drunk that New Year’s, but not so steaming that I don’t remember every single part of Sandy’s body. I can still taste her now. I can still hear her yelling at me, “I want you to let me come,” like she’d already accepted that she was mine.
MINE.
And I didn’t even realize how mine she was until I saw the specks of blood on the sheet when I woke up the next morning. Alone. I’d felt a surge of emotions that I immediately chalked up to a banging hangover tinged with guilt and something else I’ve still not managed to label. Suffice it to say though that Sandy made an everlasting impression on me, and I’ve long since given up trying to fight it.
My cock throbs inside my pants, and I adjust it while I open Olivia’s message. That’s one sure-fire way to make it grow limp.
Tonight’s the night, Caleb.
What does that even fucking mean?
Even if Sandy was a pure figment of my imagination, I’m not stupid enough to date Olivia Dragonetti again. I like my cock exactly where it is and in one piece. I like my life. Contrary to what my brothers believe, I even enjoy eating dinner alone, before I head downstairs to the casino and watch the losers ramping up the zeroes in my bank account.
One day, another Sandy will come along, maybe, and I’ll consider settling down and starting a family, but my kids sure-as-fuck are not having a Dragonetti Don as their favorite grandpa.
An email pops into my inbox.
The name Dragonetti makes my grilled lobster sour on my tongue. I guzzle cold water from the glass that arrived with my evening meal, a perfect crescent of lemon twisted onto the rim, before I read it.
The message is simple.
Old man Dragonetti wants a meeting here at the Wraith in an hour.
It isn’t optional. Dress code formal. He has a proposal that he thinks will be beneficial to us both.
I sit back and push the sweet pink lobster flesh on my plate around with a silver fork. He’s going to make me an offer that I can’t refuse because it will mean the Rinse will stop being raided, and my brother’s business will continue to flourish so long as I keep the old man happy. I have an hour to figure out my next move and make sure it’s at least a couple steps ahead of the Italian family.
The problem is that Don Mateo Dragonetti has the New York City Police Commissioner in his pocket. He has personally funded the private island vacation retreats and country mansions of every member of the Board of Commissioners, and it’s no secret that he funded the campaign of the current Mayor of the city.
An alliance between the two families would mean that the Murray brothers are untouchable. It’s the best alliance we could ever hope to make, but like all good deals, it comes at a price, and Olivia’s message is ringing the kind of alarm bells in my head that no amount of Louis XIII Cognac will erase.
I pick up the crisp white napkin with Wraith embroidered in black and gold in one corner to dab my lips, as a slip of Wraith-headed paper tumbles onto the tray. Curious, I pick it up and unfold it. The words ‘Thank you’ are written in neat cursive.
That’s it. Thank you .
I turn it over—the back of the note is blank.
Standing, I cross the room and open the door, still holding the slip of paper in one hand. Lauren is seated at her desk outside my office. It’s late, but if I’m working, she’s working. It makes me feel like a prick sometimes, but Lauren is a bit of a control freak, and she doesn’t trust anyone else to look after me if she isn’t around. Besides, I pay her well, and I know she appreciates the all-expenses paid Caribbean cruise I send her on every year.
“Mr. Murray?” She’s on her feet in an instant. She slides her gold-rimmed glasses back up her nose in a gesture so ingrained she no longer realizes that she’s doing it. She’s tall, slim, her natural honey-blonde hair now turning gray.
“It’s okay, sit down, Lauren.” I cover the distance between us in two easy strides and show her the thank-you note. “Any idea who this is from?”
She furrows her brow, her lips almost disappearing into her frown. “Where…? How did you get this?” She turns and peers around the empty office like the culprit might be hiding underneath a desk having somehow escaped the gatekeeper’s attention.
“It was tucked inside the napkin on my food tray.”
Her face pales, a pink flush spreading up her neck, and I wish I hadn’t mentioned it. “I apologize, Mr. Murray. I’ll speak to the new Executive Concierge immediately.”
I hold out my hand, and she places the note back into my palm. “It’s fine. No harm done.”
“It absolutely isn’t fine,” she mutters under her breath as she sits back down. What’s next? A party invitation? A request for a private conversation?”
The internal phone is already in her hand as I head back into my office. I scrunch up the note and toss it into the wastepaper basket as I resume my seat and send a curt response to Don Dragonetti.
* * *
I’m showered, shaved, and wearing a freshly laundered silver-gray suit, pale green shirt, and emerald-green tie when Lauren announces the don’s arrival.
I open the door to greet Don Dragonetti and Olivia with an easy smile and firm handshake.
“Apologies for the short notice,” the silver-haired man says without a hint of an apology in his tone.
“Caleb!” Olivia steps out from behind her father and hugs me tightly, kissing both cheeks, and entwining her right hand with mine before I can extricate it. She trails a perfectly manicured fingernail across my tie and settles on the dimple beneath the knot. “This color suits you. It picks out the green in your eyes.”
“Olivia.” I incline my head and gesture for her to sit with her father in the lounge area of my office. I already had Lauren arrange for the Concierge to bring up a bottle of cognac and some glasses while I was getting ready in my apartment.
I take a seat on the black leather couch across the glass-topped coffee table and pour brandy into three crystal tumblers, adding ice from a black cooler, no soda.
The don sips his cognac and releases a sigh, studying the amber liquid as if only slightly concerned that I might’ve watered it down or added arsenic to his glass. “Not bad.” His lips are permanently turned down at the corners, and a quick glance at his daughter tells me that the expression has been passed down genetically. “You know why I’m here.”
Small talk over.
I leave my glass on the table. I need a clear head for this conversation. “My brother’s nightclub was raided again.”
The don smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Beside him, Olivia’s eyes widen as though bewildered that I would even try to lead the discussion. “We have to feed the Commissioner some scraps, you understand.”
Fucking scraps?
That’s my brother’s fucking nightclub he’s talking about.
“Of course.” Against my better judgement, and to stop my hand from balling into a fist that might just collide with his throat, I swallow a mouthful of cognac and track its journey all the way down. “What can we do to prevent this from happening again?”
Don Dragonetti sets his glass down on the low table and sits forward, elbows resting on his thighs. He has the decency not to rub his hands together like a common fairy tale miser. “I’m certain that we can come to some kind of arrangement, Caleb. One that will benefit both families.”
It doesn’t escape my attention that Olivia sidles closer to her father, a sly smile curving her mouth upwards as she twists several white-gold rings around her fingers.
“I’m listening.”
“The Wraith would not be quite so appealing with the cops making regular visits to the casino on level fifty.” There’s no threat in the don’s voice; he might be discussing plans to install a new chef in my restaurant. “A small monthly transaction should cover the cost of my expenses for seeing that it never happens.”
“How small?”
The old man doesn’t move. Instead, Olivia slides a silver business card out of her purse and places it on the table between us, face down. It would be far too vulgar to air the figure written on the reverse of the card to the entire room.
I flip over one corner and note the zeroes. I don’t pick it up.
This isn’t the real reason why they’re here. The Dragonetti family has no need of my money, and the cops will never find anything in the Wraith that will give them a reason to shut down the operation. The don is saving the best for last.
I’m all ears.
“I’m sure that we could reach a suitable compromise.” I contemplate my brandy and decide against draining the glass. For now.
A flicker of amusement dances across the don’s eyes. “On one condition.”
And there it is.
I wait for him to elaborate.
“My daughter has expressed a desire to be married. I’m not getting any younger, and I want to be around to play Santa at Christmastime for my grandkids.”
Olivia’s lips are moist and parted like she’s about to seduce a chocolate-coated strawberry.
“Perhaps I’m not making myself clear,” the don continues. “My daughter has expressed a desire to marry you , and I’m keen to make it happen as soon as possible.” He raises his glass in a mock salute to the soon-to-be-betrothed couple and swallows his drink in one mouthful.
Olivia is practically buzzing with childlike anticipation, perched on the edge of the sofa and waiting for me to say, “I do.”
“I appreciate the gesture,” I say, standing up. “But I’m afraid I can’t marry your daughter, Don Dragonetti.”
I cross the room and open the door, praying that Lauren has been successful with the little task I sent her earlier before I headed up to the penthouse apartment. She studies me with pursed lips from behind her desk, her spectacles doing little to hide the disapproval in her eyes.
But it’s the new Executive Concierge who causes my heart to do something that it hasn’t done in a long while, fluttering out of synch and then chasing itself back into its regular rhythm.
Lauren wanted to fire her for the thank-you-note misdemeanor, but I had a better idea. I’d assumed that the woman was thanking me for giving her a job—even though Denise handles that side of the operation—and guessed that she’d jump at the chance to keep me happy if it meant hanging onto a monthly paycheck. But now I realize that I was wrong after overhearing her pleading her case outside my office door. It’s the woman whose brother I saved from certain death on the sidewalk last night.
Only now, true to her word, Lauren has clothed her in a shimmering black dress that clings to her in all the right places. The woman in the server’s apron has been replaced by someone glamorous, chestnut-brown hair tumbling over her shoulders in soft waves, her mouth curved into a tentative smile.
She has no idea why she’s here. But she’s about to find out.
I gesture for her to join me. Taking her hand in mine, I murmur, “Keep smiling,” in her ear, and lead her into my office.
“Caleb?” Olivia stands up, her cheeks drained of color. “What’s going on?”
Ignoring her, I address her father. “The reason I can’t marry your daughter, Don Dragonetti, is because I’m already married. To Victoria.”