I roll my eyes.
“Dario, I don’t need to be management. I have enough business of my own to deal with. But you and Mateo have got kids on the way; you don’t need to be in the limelight right now. I’m doing this because I love you.”
“Whatever,” he says gruffly. “You clear on the drill?”
“Sure. Don’t break the furniture. Don’t screw the wives. Don’t offend the old fuckers.” Old fuckers. I have an image of those eyes again. I realize I’m agitated when I fumble to fidget with my ring. The ring that’s not there.
My mood darkens.
“And dress the part,” he continues, because clearly, that’s an issue too. “Don’t go in there looking like some Latino pimp daddy.”
“E che cazzo, Dario!” I snarl. I don’t have time for this. If there’s one thing worse than a mobster with shears, it’s a mobster who’s stuck at home with a pregnant woman. He’s clearly bored and acting out like a frustrated maiden aunt. I end the call before he can continue.
This whole damn thing is going to be a monumental waste of fucking time.
Chapter 8
Emma McErlane
The building in front of me is a tower of glass and chrome gleaming in the city’s night lights. And as I stare down at the red carpet that leads to the front doors, it occurs to me that it’s not too late. Not too late to turn. Not too late to run. Not too late to get the hell away from here.
I don’t need this shit!
I spin on my heel and take several strides before breaking into a jog. The voices behind me amp up in volume, and I pick up the pace just as a bruising grip closes around my upper arm.
“Going somewhere, lass?” The huge guy who grabbed me looks like a giant ginger wall. Slow. Lumbering.
Shit!
Stupid girly shoes slowed me down.
“I- I think I forgot something…” I say weakly.
“Yeah?” His eyes narrow on me. “Tell me what it is. I’ll see that you get it.”
“I…” Fuck. “It’s fine,” I mutter, lowering my eyes. The big guy keeps his own firmly on my face, which is a relief. This dress puts my tits on display, and I already feel like a whore. I’d want to kill him if I felt like he was ogling me too.
“Mr. McErlane is expecting you,” he goes on. “I’ll take you up.”
“I’m fine.” I yank my arm away. Parker is beside me, and he rubs a soothing hand on my shoulder. Probably feels like a right shite for handing me over like this. Lamb to the slaughter.
“Come along, Miss Em,” he murmurs, leading me to the door. The ginger ninja falls in step behind us. Probably making sure I don’t try to pull another getaway stunt. Can’t have Daddy Darling losing face at a big fancy shindig like this.
Bastard.
I set my jaw and trudge up the stairs into the foyer, raising my hem in one hand. We enter the elevator in silence, and I keep my eyes firmly forward as the numbers light up. My arms are folded over my chest, my expression mutinous in the stainless steel of the doors when they finally swish open. Noise surrounds me in a wave. Music. Tinkling laughter. Booming voices. The usual fake fuckery.
A nudge between my shoulder blades has me stepping forward abruptly, and suddenly I’m in a swirl of humanity.
Christ, I hate this crap!
A passing server carries a tray of drinks aloft, and I almost snag a flute of champagne before thinking better of it. Should probably be drinking water for the baby, right?
That’s if I plan to keep it.
My stomach churns.
“Emma, you’re here!” a voice sounds out through the din. I turn in the direction it’s coming from and make out my father’s sandy blond head towering over most of the others. Tall, broad, powerfully built, Tommy McErlane didn’t get to where he is by being a pussy. Even now, people are buzzing around him like flies. Women twittering past fake lashes and fake smiles.
