My father only brought Max to events like this when he needed more security. I wondered if this was what Valentina had been rambling about. Thank God she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. She was the talk of the town, which was the only reason I knew anything at all. No one ever listened to her. Well, I did. Everyone else thought she was crazy, and that assumption may or may not be deserved.
Valentina said a lot of the issues in my family were caused by the Romano and Genovese men. They could not be trusted. Neither could the Russians—and from what I’d heard while eavesdropping, they were trying to merge their bloodlines.
This didn’t shock me. After all, I’d spent my entire life growing up hearing about how much of a threat the Romanos were. Dad had preached how they were liars, killers, and thieves. He’d spent so much time separating the Irish Outfit from the toxicity that came with the Romanos’ last name, it would be a shame if it had all been for naught.
My father worked alone now, running the Irish Outfit by himself, because he was terrified of his family being associated with—let alone ruined by—the Romano name. He had control over the docks, the unions, the politicians, and the cops, all while making us outcasts, forcing us to live a simple, null life.
Taking in a deep breath, I went to the bar in the hope of switching the champagne out for a martini. There, sitting at the far end, was Valentina. I watched her talk her way into a free flight of wine. Her boobs did most of the talking.
She wasn’t going to share the wine she had. A bottle was enough to get her tipsy, not drunk.
“Martini,” I asked one of the bartenders, but the chatter in the room was too loud for him to hear me. Frustration bubbledup as he glanced over my head, clearly ignoring me. I suddenly understood why Valentina ordered with her boobs.
Her eyes narrowed in what felt like a silent warning. Following her gaze, I turned my head to find a man approaching me from behind.
Max.
“Martini—extra olive,” he said, ordering for me.
“Oh,” I said, blushing. “Thank you.”
He fixed his gaze on my lips. “How many have you had?”
“Not enough to talk to you,” I admitted, biting down my smile. Just as expected, my palms began to sweat, and my teeth found the inside of my cheek.
“This is your last one,” he ordered.
“Gosh, you’re grumpy.” My eyes rolled—the usual response to his brooding tendencies.
“And you’re drunk,” he said. A barely-there smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
“At least I’ll wake up sober,” I remarked.
“Careful,” he demanded, stepping back and lifting a short glass of amber liquid—whiskey, most likely—to his lips. He didn’t care to entertain my theatrics. He never really did.
The smell of his cologne wafted past me, and my mind briefly wandered to his scent. That wasn’t a good idea.God, couldn’t the man at least smell?
I took the glass from him, my hand brushing against his cool fingers. Raising the glass to my lips, I stole a glance at him. His eyes locked on mine.
Taking a shuddering breath, I tipped the glass back. The liquid, a deep amber color, flooded my throat. It was fire. It was like swallowing boiling water. It seared a path all the way down.
“That’s ...” I rasped, my voice strained, “strong.”
He looked at me, shocked, but also not entirely surprised. “Whiskey,” he informed me. “I would’ve warned you, though you never exactly gave me the opportunity.”
“Whiskey, huh?” I wheezed, still feeling the burn in my throat. “Figures you’d choose the drink that packs the hardest punch, just like everything else about you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is that right?” He took the empty drink back. “And what exactly is ‘everything else’ about me?”
The bartender placed a martini in front of me with an extra olive.
“That’s a rhetorical question, I hope.” I rolled my eyes. “I don’t have all night to talk about your brooding tendencies.”
“My brooding tendencies?” Max asked, amused.
“Uh-huh,” I mumbled as I lifted the glass, ready to take a sip, but instead I tipped the glass back. The burn of the alcohol seared a path down my throat. As I lowered the empty glass, Max’s gaze held mine. I lifted the toothpick and stabbed the olive, taking it between my teeth.
I chewed. He watched.
