Nick chews a while, looking at me, before he reaches for his own beer and drains the last quarter of it. “Unlikely,” he says afterwards, “but we should make sure. Besides, she might know something about Gatti that we don’t.”
“You said yourself she would’ve told Grandpa Vollero by now,” I point out skeptically.
“Hard to say for sure. Vollero’s…” He trails off, grimacing. “He wasn’t happy about her involvement in the first place. She had to fight to take the idea to the Boss.”
“Itwasa dangerous move,” I allow, but Nick shakes his head.
“Sure, but that wasn’t the problem. Vollero’s old fashioned. Doesn’t think women should be involved in the business.”
“Does Luca?”
Nick grins at that. “Doesn’t have much choice, with his sister-in-law heading up the Donovans, does he?”
The Donovans are Boston Irish, and that’s two big differences right there. But I don’t point that out, because I’ve suddenly remembered something. “Shit.” I put my plate down and look around frantically for my phone, then check my calendar. “Shit, shit,shit.”
“Something I should know about?” Nick asks laconically. He’s taken advantage of my distraction to scrape out the rest of the goat stew onto his plate.
“I have a meeting tomorrow afternoon with Finch, Aidan, and Tara Donovan to finalize this charity thing they’re putting together.” I look up at him, twisting my mouth. “I can’t hand it off to another partner. Finch wanted me specifically, and you know how he is…”
“Yeah, I know.” Nick shrugs and reaches for the last piece of injera bread. He rips off a small portion and drops that back on the serving plate, pretending to share. “No biggie. I’ll drop you there.”
I find myself thankful that Nick hasn’tactuallyspilled to Don Morelli about the Hamptons—yet. I find the Don unnerving. Unpredictable. I don’t know if I could go to his house and sit there making contract negotiations while wondering if he was going to take me out any second. Although he probably wouldn’t do it in his own place, I realize. Finch D’Amato would complain about the blood stains in the carpet.
“I need to read over my notes again tonight,” I tell Nick, moving the Ethiopian food over so I can open my laptop again.
“Finish eating first,” Nick says, closing it firmly.
“Ihavefinished.”
“No, you haven’t.”
The tone of his voice makes me stop shuffling papers around and look up at him. Nick puts his plate aside and leans back on the sofa, hands on thighs that are spreading in an unmistakable invitation.
“I guess I haven’t,” I purr.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Carlo
We haven’t taken our eyes off each other.
“Come here,” he tells me. I wipe my face off with a napkin, crawl around the coffee table, and slide between Nicky’s thighs. He didn’t tell me to crawl, but he didn’t have to. It gets my face level with his crotch, especially when he slides back on the sofa and spreads his legs even wider to give me room. I press my cheek against his knee, looking up at him, and he runs the back of his fingers across my cheek. When I close my eyes, I can almost pretend we’re some normal couple without all the shit hanging over us. That we’re just sitting here enjoying dinner, a beer, and then a spectacular blow job. When I have the image firm in my mind, I sit up, run my hands down the insides of his thighs, and hook my fingers into his waist band.
“Wait,” he says, and I’m going to assume he doesn’t mean wait as in,we shouldn’t do this, but as intease me. I slide my hands back down his thighs and lean forward, press my face right into his crotch and breathe him in. I can smell him under his clothes; the body wash from his shower, and underneath that, salt and something darker, hotter: danger. If danger could have a scent, it’s what I smell coming off Nick Fontana.
His fingers go through my hair and give a gentle tug, so that I look up into his face.
“Wait,” he says again, then cups my face and draws me up his body so he can kiss my lips. “You’re always in such a hurry,” he says after.
News to me, but okay. “Fine. Let’s take our time.”
He still has my face between his hands, his eyes searching mine as though he’s looking for some truth there. I’m comfortably in his lap, my legs splayed out over his, and I can’t stop myself from sliding a hand around the back of his neck.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask.
“You.”
“No, really,” I insist, suddenly desperate to know. “What’s going on in there?”
