I glance across at the blouse I’d dropped onto the passenger seat. There’s plenty of time to take it to a dry cleaner on the way, but for some reason, I’m stalling.
My morning went pretty much the same way most of my mornings go. I woke at six, checked my messages, hit my basement gym, showered and headed straight out to the same coffee shop I visit every morning.
Only, this day was different.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the slip of paper. Erin—I study the hastily scribbled name—Applebaumhappened. And gave me something to smile about.
Sure, I was a little preoccupied with my phone while carrying a tray of coffees on my way out of the shop, but when I looked up a split second before we collided, she was staring intently into a compact mirror with a finger half-deep in her eye socket.
It was such an obvious accident waiting to happen.
The biggest challenge wasn’t defending myself; it was trying to keep a straight face while a small-ish woman with the biggest blue eyes I’ve ever seen and sharpest tongue I’ve ever been on the receiving end of,yelledat me in front of an entire coffee shop.
I was captivated in a single instant.
Her husky voice was deeper than I’d have expected, her perfect, pretty nose wrinkling as she gave me the third degree. And her tits beneath that wet blouse gave good bounce as she waved her hands about like a music conductor on speed.
She was so absorbed in her torrent of fury, she wasn’t aware of me shirking my jacket and removing my button-up to aid in covering her modesty.
The way her mouth contorted into a perfect ‘o’ when she realized what I’d done was priceless.
I laugh to myself. Something I haven’t done in a while. Then I frown slightly at the memory of her getting so riled up over one small blouse.
The light up ahead switches to red and I roll to a stop. Lifting the shirt, I peer at the label. It’s a high street brand but the logo is several iterations old.
This thing is vintage.
Maybe it means something to her. Then again, if it has sentimental value, why has she trusted a total stranger to get it cleaned?
What was it she’d said? She was on her way to see a lawyer? Something about a divorce? An angry daughter? Living with her mother? Agigsomething?
I lift the cotton to my nose and breathe it in. Aside from the overwhelming smell of latte, there’s a light scent of vanilla and coconut. I breathe in again. I really like it.
The scent brings back the memory of her blazing eyes. I haven’t seen that much anger and passion in a woman in a long time, and I’m still surprised that even in her moment of distress, I got hard.
It’s refreshing to have a conversation, however aggressive, with a woman who a) isn’t in her twenties and b) shagging one of my co-workers. I love the women my brothers have chosen, but they’re half my age and I’m done with all that.
It wasn’t too long ago I was entertaining women in the twenty to thirty age bracket—and apparently the salt, pepper and abs combination is quite the thing—but lately, they don’t sate me like they used to.
At fifty-two I’m done with the one-night stands, driving to and from the clubs, teaching tricks in bed. I’m not tired as such, I’m just… my standards are different these days.
The light turns green and I drop the shirt onto the seat. And I thoughtIhad a lot going on.
Most people assume hardened criminals such as myself are compassionless. Especially, I suppose, the ones who fight anyone that comes along just for the kicks of patching them up afterwards.
There’s no care involved in what I do in that disused ward—it’s entirely clinical. But, contrary to popular opinion, I have a heart. I have feelings and empathy. I personally think that is what has made me a fucking good underboss the last forty years.
So, when I hear a stream of pressure flow from the mouth of someone who sounds, frankly, at the end of her tether, I can’t dismiss it as sheer amusement.
I turn off the Parkway toward the Di Santo residence and dial a number on my cell. By the time I’ve cut the call, I’m pulling through the open gates to the house, putting the entire morning reluctantly to the back of my mind.
Trilby greets me at the door, eager for her coffee. It’s decaf, of course, but she still clings to the stuff like it’s laced with opium.
I bend to peck her on the cheek. “You look radiant, sweetheart.”
She strokes a palm down my cheek. “Augie, darling, I look like shit, but you say all the right things. Come on in. Cristiano’s in his office.”
I make my way down the hall and see Cristiano’s door slightly ajar. His eyes lift as I push it open.
