“Do you really need seven tiers? We could just rearrange the decoration and make the sixth layer the top one,” I offer as another alternative.
Her chin wobbles. “Six isn’t my lucky number, and it wouldn’t take long to fetch it. I’ll give you the address.”
“I know where the caterers are based. It’s at least an hour round trip.”
“The cake was being decorated somewhere else, something to do with temperature control,” she says, using her phone to send me the address. “You’ll be back in half that time. Please, Grace. It’s my first birthday party and I want to getit right.”
Crying at your own party already ticks one of the boxes for a classic birthday, but I don’t say that. I mumble an agreement and turn on my heels. I wish there was time to chase after Duke, or find Ed to let them know what’s happening, but I leave a message with Len, the butler who arranges to have my Mini Cooper brought to the front of the house.
The wind is bracing, but I don’t have time to go back to my room and fetch a coat. I’m shivering as I punch the destination into my car’s GPS and take off at speed, barely stopping at the gates to give a brief nod to the security guards who recognize me and wave me through.
The unit is less than a fifteen-minute drive away, but I’m not going to relax until I’m back at the house. It’s a minor deviation, I tell myself. I’m worrying for nothing.
I repeat that mantra over and over in my head until I pull up outside a brick building in a row of similar units along a darkened street. There are no windows and the entrance is shuttered. The only welcoming light comes from the motion-activated security light that comes on as I pull into a parking space.
There’s a blond-haired man leaning against the wall wearing a dark, possibly black tuxedo. He waves, like he’s been waiting for me.
“Oh, fuck.”
Sensing a trap, I struggle to put the Mini Cooper in reverse, but I’m too late. The man in the tuxedo opens the passenger door and drops into the seat next to me. He’s at least six foot and his large frame fills my little car in much the sameway he’d filled the restroom stall the other week in the restaurant.
“Don’t rush on my account,” he says in a playful tone. “Do you not want the cake, Gracie?”
He places a cake box on his lap and rests a smaller gift bag on top before slamming the passenger door shut, sealing us in.
“It’s you again. Katarina’s hairdresser.”
“To be honest with you, I tend to mess up her hair more than I do style it, but yeah, that’d be me.”
“Why are you…?” My words stick in my throat. His accent is more pronounced than it had been in the restaurant. Less American. More Irish. Dread steals my breath as I make more connections from that night in the restaurant. Shit. Had Katarina’s bodyguards been right about the Irish mafia being there? Had I spoken to one of them? “What do you want?”
“A ride to the party would be grand,” he says, beaming a smile at me.
My heart thumps painfully in my chest. Surely I’ve jumped to one too many conclusions. A Bratva princess wouldn’t be hooking up with a member of the Irish mafia. They’re enemies. It wouldn’t be allowed. Then I remember how much Katarina hates her uncle. Despite the cold, sweat beads my brow.
My unwelcome passenger tips his head in the direction of the road. “We need to get going. We don’t want to miss the celebrations.”
I put my car into park. “No,” I say, my refusal shocking me more than him. It doesn’t matter who this man is, I just know he’s trouble. “You’re not on the guest list and you won’t be allowed in. Please, get out.”
He rubs at the dark stubble on his chin, his features turning grave. “Please don’t make me do this.”
My heart leaps into my throat. “Do what?” I croak.
I suck in a breath, preparing to scream as he slips his hand into his inside jacket pocket. He’s smiling at my reaction when he shows me his cell phone. “Let’s talk to Kitty.”
When the call connects, Katarina’s tone is a soft purr. “Hey, Shorty. Did you see Grace?”
“I’m looking at her right now,” he says, winking at me. “We’re on speakerphone, so no dirty talk.”
“You should be so lucky,” she huffs. “Hi, Grace. Sorry for the surprise. Shorty’s insisting on giving me a birthday gift and you’re the only one I’d trust to pick it up. We won’t get another chance.”
I cock my head at the Irishman. Katarina isn’t expecting him to come back with me. “Shorty here wants me to–”
Shorty clears his throat loudly. “Two things, Gracie. Firstly, only Katarina gets to call me Shorty. You can call me Kill, Killi or Killian.”
As in Killian McConkey. The man who assured the Griffins the Irish mafia hadn’t been at the restaurant the other week. Shit.
“And your second thing?” asks Katarina with an edge to her voice. “What the hell are you up to, Killian?”
