“For now.”
“Well, when you finally put him in the ground and take your seat, we’ve got business to discuss.” His tone shifts, immediately sharp. “Tommy’s been working the port contracts for years. You ready to close?”
“More than ready.” I flick ash onto the cracked pavement. “Soon as I’m official, we move. Global access, clean routes, no more bullshit middlemen.”
“Good man.” Ronan pauses. “So where’ve you been hiding? Heard rumors you’ve got yourself a woman.”
Matti coughs on the other end of the line.
“Not a woman,” I snap too quickly. “A safe house.”
“Right.” Ronan’s grin is audible. “A safe house that cooks for you, I’m betting. The only thing you like more than pussy is food.”
“Ronan—”
“Just saying, mate. Get it out of your system before your responsibilities kick in. Once you’re boss, you’ll need to be sharp, focused. Can’t have some piece of ass distracting you.”
Piece of ass.
Sophie’s not— I stop myself. She is. That’s all she is: a distraction. Something to keep me entertained until I can turn the Demonio Brotherhood into a reality.
“Not a problem,” I say flatly.
“Good. Because once those ports open up, you’re going to need every brain cell firing, brother.” Ronan’s voice turns serious. “This is what we’ve been building toward, the Demonio Brotherhood on the global stage. Don’t fuck it up over some—”
The sound of a car door slamming cuts Ronan off. I turn, cigarette halfway to my mouth. Sophie.
She’s climbing out of her beat-up sedan, arms loaded with grocery bags, hair escaping from her messy bun in soft waves. She’s wearing her stained work apron still, and when she looks up and sees me, her expression flattens.
No smile, no light in those big brown eyes, just wary distance. I don’t like it.
“Vin? You there?” Ronan’s voice crackles in my ear.
I drop the cigarette and grind it under my heel, eyes locked on Sophie as she struggles with the bags. She doesn’t acknowledge me, much less ask for help.
“Yeah,” I rasp. “I’m here. Listen, I’ve got to go. We’ll pick this up later.”
“Right. Get your priorities straight, mate. Talk soon.”
Sophie’s already at the door, fumbling with the doorknob, bags threatening to spill from her arms. I cross to her in three strides and reach for the bags.
She jerks back. “I’ve got it.”
“Sophia—”
“I said I’ve got it.”
She gets the door open and disappears inside, leaving me standing on the broken steps like a fucking idiot, wondering why the hell I’m still here. Why I can’t stop fixing shit around her house. Why I care that she won’t even look at me.
I should leave, pack my shit and go to Dragovari Tower or find another safe house or just handle this war head-on instead of spending my time in Brooklyn waiting for a woman who hates me to make me dinner.
But I don’t. I follow her inside, closing the door behind me with a quiet click, and watch her unpack groceries like I’m not even there. And for the first time in days, I let myself admit the truth I’ve been avoiding: I don’t want to leave. Not yet.
27
Sophie
The apartment feels different when I push through the door, arms laden with grocery bags. Lighter somehow, less cramped.
