In her hand is a piece of paper she folds over, but my eyes snag on a name.
M. Marcello.
Holy. Shit.
The mother knows Milo Marcello, head of the Marcello crime family.
I don’t know how, but this changes things.
Our eyes meet.
“I see.” This time her mother looks at me like she’s seeing me. “And you are?”
“Declan Murphy, concerned citizen and professional,” I say, ignoring her disdain.
“Dickwad,” Marlowe says so only I can hear. “Professional dickwad.”
I ignore that, too. “I keep things safe, property, people, things like that. She was out, running around in the park.” I clasp my hands in front of me. “Your daughter needs a leash.”
“Asshole,” Marlowe hisses.
And her mother spins. Pointing at her. “It’s late, Marlowe. You’re getting worse. If you were younger, I’d send you off to boarding school. You need to remember who you are and not cause trouble. Stay away from riff raff.” Her mom looks at me again. “No offense.”
A whole wheelbarrow full taken, but I keep that to myself. She’s got desperate written all over her. And though she’s better at hiding it than her daughter, I can smell the sharp odor of fear.
Then she turns. “What is it you want?”
“A job.” I pull out my wallet. There’s an old card for a bogus bodyguard business I had made up a few years ago to get in thedoor for a job. I hand it to her. It just says Murphy, Personal Bodyguard on the front. And on the back? A number to a voicemail for Murphy’s Bodyguard Service, a website that’s discreet but makes it look legit, and the address for upstairs of the sex club we own on the Upper East Side.
“And what kind of job?” Her voice is tight. Controlled.
“Your daughter needs protection.” I let that hang. Let the weight of it settle.
Her hand trembles—just once—before she steadies it. She glances at the Marcello note still clutched in her other hand, then folds it quickly.
“Come with me, Mr. Murphy. We’ll discuss this in my study.”
“No!” Marlowe gasps.
And I smile at Marlowe as I follow her mother. “Yes.”
FOUR
marlowe
What?
What the fuck?
My body shakes, hands forming into tight fists.
They disappeared into Mom’s study and I can hear them talking through the closed door. Muffled voices, Mom’s sharp tone, Declan’s Irish lilt.
What?
He’s actually in there negotiating with her?
I have to take a moment in the living room to gather myself, to get all the sparking emotions, wants, and desires under control.
