I pause, eyeing a canvas with abstract crimson petals blooming within golden leaves. This looks like something you’d get from a flea market. Million-dollar painting? “How do you know that?”
She fingers the bottom of another painting, a clock on a workbench, and lifts it away from the wall, peeking behind it. When she lets it go, it smacks the wall with a thud. “I have connections in New York who deal in specialty imports. Paintings are one of them.”
I think of last night’s havoc at the terminal, and the watercolor paintings she was getting like they were an afterthought to her order of weapons.
“Uh-huh,” I deadpan.
She frowns. “If you don’t want to know, don’t ask. Just know each of these—” Her finger rapidly points to several paintings. “Over millions each. I like this one.” Aoife stalls in front of a maritime portrait of a woman waist-deep in dark, murky water. Her mouth is barely parted, her eyes boring into the person staring at the painting. The water is still, but beyond her in-focus face is a scaly tail. I hunt the plaque below it.The Siren’s Silence.
Aoife and her mermaids are something I’m not sure I’ll ever understand, but if there’s one thing all Boston recognizes, it’s those damn tails.
Reed wanders out of the kitchen. “Grayson, about time you got here. What’s she doing here?”
I bristle at his tone, but Aoife just winks at him before picking up a gold cat figurine and turning it over in her hands. “Chief said she should be here. Guess he thinks she’s useful for something.”
The cat smacks back onto the bookshelf as Aoife continues to poke around.
“Find anything?” I ask him.
“No. Lots of paperwork, but so far nothing.” His eyes roam over the hall and dining area and then trail after Aoife as she disappears around the corner. He swallows.
I sigh, moving past Reed and following Aoife as she peruses what looks like a study or office. Reed wasn’t joking about thepaperwork. It’s piled high on every surface of the desk, spilling over onto the several wooden chairs in the room.
“Tiffany lamp.” Aoife pulls the chain, and the light switches on. The stained-glass shade illuminates a mosaic of emerald, sapphire, and amber; the bronze heavy and ornate. She pulls the gold chain, and it flicks off. I turn to inspect something, but the light clicks on again. Then off again.
“Do youhaveto touch everything?” I blurt.
She ignores me, moving behind the desk to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stuffed with books, more papers, and photos. As she scans the shelves, her back to me, I take a moment to explore the way her hair skims midway down her back. Her hips sway as she shifts back and forth between the shelves, and my throat bobs. When she reaches behind her to massage where her shoulder meets her neck, I avert my gaze, only to dredge it back, watching as she tilts her neck over to one side to work out a kink. I clench my fist, willing myself still, and fight the urge to keep from caressing the muscle for her.
I’ve been alone too long. If the damn Irish Mob leader can tempt me, something’s wrong.
“Gotcha,” she whispers, and I jerk away. But she turns, holding up a photo. “Guess who this is?”
I stride toward her and lean in, taking the photo. “I don’t recognize anyone. Well, wait. Is that the wife?”
She nods.
“And?”
“The family in this photo is Cosa Nostra. Rob Morris isn’t mafia, she is. He must’ve married into it.”
I stare at the photo, eyes flicking up to meet hers. “I didn’t think the Cosa Nostra resided in Boston.”
“They don’t. Haven’t in many, many years. There was a faction of them who left New York when the old alliance betweenthe Bratva and Cosa Nostra was established, but it was dissolved years ago. Because of Summer, actually.”
Aoife floats closer, plucking the photo out of my hands. She slides past me in the narrow space between the desk and bookshelves. Her hips brush mine, then the curve of her ass grazes across my groin. Heat shoots through me so fast, but I force my eyes on the brown wallpaper ahead. I swear I forget my own name, then clear my throat. “How would someone outside the mob or mafia world know who her family was then? It seems like she didn’t participate in their business if she lives here, married to someone outside of it.”
Aoife licks her top lip and looks to the ceiling. “Yes, but he’s an accountant, you say? I bet he was the one dealing with them. Moving money, embezzling, the list could be a mile long. And to answer your question—outsiders wouldn’t know.”
“So, the murderer has to be in a crime family,” I say, chasing the high we’re getting somewhere.
“Or law enforcement.” Aoife studies me, and I, once again, avert my eyes from her prying gaze and try not to erupt when she gnaws on her lower lip.
Something’s definitely wrong with me.
CHAPTER 8
AOIFE
