A spa weekend with my good friend Frankie Keaton, the sitting president’s wife.
I’d have to say yes to all of these engagements. Since I didn’t have a real job, my task was to form connections my brother and the Irish Mafia could use. Tiernan paid me a monthly salary. I, in return, made police officers look the other way, county clerks speed up permits, and the port workers put aside goods the Irish later sold for triple the price on the streets.
After RSVPing my next month into mindless social obligations, I logged on to the encrypted messaging app, stopping on an unread message from a few weeks ago. My thumb halted over the screen.
Unknown: Do the right thing, Tierney. It’s your only chance at freedom.
Nibbling on the corner of my lip, I contemplated answering FBI Agent Tom Rothwell. He’d been on my ass for a couple of years now, trying to convince me to flip on the Ferrantes. But since I didn’t have a death wish, I kept shutting him down.
He was an option in case everything went to shit. Hopefully, it’d never come to that.
With a sigh, I slipped my phone into my bag, turned around, and reentered the church.
In the span of a few minutes, the first few pews had filled up almost completely. Tiernan and Lila stood at the altar, next to the priest. So did Luca and Sofia, the godparents.
There was one almost-empty pew—the second one from the front, where Achilles sat alone.
Since I’d rather bathe in acid than sit next to him, I hurried to the first pew and squeezed myself between Lila’s brother Enzo and my father.
“Pumpkin.” My father kissed my cheek.
“Tyrone.” I coiled away, pressing against Enzo. The childish pet name grated on my nerves. I was twenty-nine. Besides, we weren’t close enough for nicknames.
“Shame about the outfit. You don’t need it to look beautiful.” His eyes swept over me disapprovingly.
I didn’t answer. I was never good enough for my father, and he made sure I remembered it.
He had ignored me all of my adolescent years, and as soon as I came of age and he realized I was too difficult to marry off, he gave up on me altogether.
These days, we barely spoke and only saw each other when Tiernan invited us both over.
“Yo, Tier.” Enzo slung a tan, muscular arm over the pew, giving my shoulder a playful squeeze. “Waddup?”
I liked Enzo. He was funny, kind, and outrageously hot. Our paths didn’t cross often, but when they did, we could spend hours bantering and having a great time. He and Lila were the only Ferrantes I didn’t actively want to push off a cliff.
“No complaints,” I said. “You?”
“A few complaints.” He popped a piece of mint gum, scratching his forearm absentmindedly. “Hunger, mainly. Been cutting carbs. Gotta maintain that eight percent body fat.”
“Only a certified masochist would do that.” I scrunched my nose. “Quitting pasta and bread would make me stabby.”
“See, that’s not a problem in my line of work.” He grinned good-naturedly.
Enzo was an enforcer. Stabbing people was his day job. You’d think it’d make him less lovable.
You’d be wrong. “And the results are wild. You should see me under this shirt. I’m more shredded than sensitive documents President Keaton doesn’t want leaking to the media.” He
rolled his tongue over his perfect teeth, giving me a cheeky wink. “Allegedly.”
I snorted, shaking my head. “If you’re trying to milk me for gossip about the First Couple, save your breath.”
“So you’re not denying that he did it. Interesting.” He wiggled his brows.
I laughed. “What else is new?”
“Oh, let’s see… I’m giving up pussy for Lent.”
“Why?” Achilles chimed in. “The whole point of Lent is giving up something youlike.”
