I stand outside the Rusty Anchor, lighting a cigarette I don’t even want, watching smoke curl into the night and trying to ignore the inconvenient knot in my chest.
Fuck me.
Been a long time since I did that for a woman.
Been even longer since I made the completely unconscious decision towanta woman.
Ever since she walked into me in the coffee shop, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her. Every small interaction—even when she sent back the shirts I bought her—makes me feel curiously alive.
It isn’t just the way she looks, though she’s easily the best looking woman to cross my path inyears, with shoulder-length hair the color of wheat, a cute button nose, and wide blue eyes that expose both her fragility and her strength.
It’s her quick wit and her feistiness.
Something tells me she’d give me a run for my money in a way no man would ever dare.
And since that day, I’ve felt this really fucking weird caveman-like urge to protect the damn woman.
That’s a problem.
And the problem with that is, I like problems.
I go to stub out the cigarette when my gaze falls to the guy who felt her up. I’ve a good mind to shove him into the road and let nature—or drivers too intoxicated to spot a lump on the ground—handle it, but my compulsion gets the better of me.
He’s curled on his side when I approach. Bending at the knees, I check for a pulse, knowing it’s unlikely I killed him. It’s weak but it’s there.
I move his left arm back a little, pull his right knee up and tip back his head. Then I open his mouth, checking for anything that might block the flow of air into his lungs. Once I’m happy he’ll survive, I straighten and put a call into 911. Just as I hang up, my phone buzzes with a message from Cristiano.
“We have intel.”
Despite the early hour of the morning, I type out a reply. “I’m on my way.”
“We’re at the penthouse,” comes the response.
Excellent. Benito’s club is just uptown and there’s hardly any traffic at this hour.
I glance one more time at the guy who touched something that wasn’t his to touch, then make my way to my car.
The penthouse is an open plan meeting space that sits several floors above our consigliere’s thriving club, Arena. There’s no décor, just concrete floors, a table and chairs, an old but fully stocked bar, and flickering fluorescents.
Cristiano is leaning back in his chair, tapping a pen against his lips. Benito is behind the bar pouring three glasses of Glenfiddich. He reaches for a fourth when he sees me approach.
The door to the restroom bangs and Nicolò saunters out dressed in nonchalance and yet more expensive shoes.
I settle on a chair opposite Cristiano and wait for the others to sit.
“Sounds serious,” I offer.
“It is.” Cristiano slides a folder across the desk. “We got more intel on the Russians’ latest project.”
I flip it open and see inside a pile of documents with names and signatures, discreet and grainy black and white photos, and… a brochure.
Winter Pines Lodge – A Luxury Retreat for Couples.
I smirk. “Is this a joke?”
“I’m afraid not. On the surface, it’s a married couples retreat. One week filled with wine tastings, golf, yoga...”
I glance sideways at him. “And beneath the surface?”
