As I slide behind the wheel, I throw another look at my unexpected passenger. A woman who’s driven me out of my mind.
This insanity needs to stop. Tonight.
I kick the car into gear, already dialing my pilot.
“You’re late,” Rina whispers as I run into the kitchen.
“Sorry.” I dash straight to the stove to get lunch ready. The don’s wall-shaking shouts can be heard all the way here, amplifying my hangover.
When Mom woke me up this morning, it took me a minute to process where I was. I was in my bed, still in the dress I wore to the club. With no memory of how I got home.
The last thing I recall is talking with Saul’s friend. Larry or Jerry. Maybe Gary? After that…nothing. My mom looked really worried as she told me about the man who brought me home, carried me to bed, and then rushed away. I assume it was Larry/Gary/Jerry, since apparently the only thing he said was that he knew Evelyn.
Certain images have been flashing through my mind for the past several hours, but they are a jumbled mess. Sugary cocktails. Someone complaining about a hockey game. Bending over a toilet while a man’s hands held my hair back. The purr of a car, and the smell of the ocean as I floated among the clouds.
I must have dreamed that up because there was also…a kiss.
A panty-soaking kiss.
I shiver as some details punch through my foggy brain. I thought I kissed—
No. Some things from last night must have got mixed up with my dream, because I remember kissing a man who looked a lot like Adriano Ruffo. That wouldn’t happen to me in a million years. The idea is laughable.
More shouts drift into the kitchen from the adjacent conference room. So loud I worry the windows might shatter. And my skull.
“Don Spada is in a mood,” I mumble.
“Mm-hmm,” Rina replies. “Ms. Zara went out to run a few errands, so she’s not around to save us this time.”
“Did something happen?”
“I heard Don Spada called an urgent meeting. Something about a shipment being late. But he hasn’t been able to get a hold of Mr. Ruffo.”
I freeze at the mention of his name.
“Apparently,” Rina continues, oblivious to my state. “Mr. Ruffo took off to New York yesterday, and the don is livid he wasn’t told first.”
The crushing anxiety in my chest dissolves.
Thank God.
It was just a dream after all.
Chapter 14
The hiss of the espresso machine competes with the clamor of people enjoying their morning coffee. Utterly oblivious to the clusterfuck that happened in their city mere hours ago, the patrons of this quaint New York café are carrying on with their mundane existence.
“It’s unfortunate that your last night in my territory didn’t go as you planned, Adriano. But at least you got out of that shit show at Naos alive. If not entirely unharmed,” Salvatore Ajello says with a sardonic glint in his eyes as he brings a cappuccino to his lips. “I hope your arm heals soon.”
I pin the scheming bastard across from me with my gaze. Of course he would’ve already heard about what went down at Popov’s club.
“Nothing more than a graze,” I say. “I was lucky the shooter lacked accuracy.”
“Who knows, perhaps his skills were actually…perfect.”
I can’t help but smile, even though my flesh fucking stings. I goddamn knew that the “stray” bullet that nicked my upper arm didn’t come from those idiots who attacked Popov’s establishment. When I got hit, only a couple of assailants were left, and both were cowering near the front entrance. The only assholes behind me were supposedly “friendlies,” and that’s where the shot had come from.
Ajello has always been and will always be a vengeful motherfucker. Per his decree, no members of other Cosa Nostra families are allowed in his territory without his direct approval. Anyone who dares to disobey usually ends up going home in a body bag. That is, unless that “someone” has invested fifty million dollars into Ajello’s business. Still, the New York don must have been fuming when his minions informed him of my unauthorized arrival nearly two weeks ago. I had basically spit on his edict, and that demanded a response from him. Something he isn’t hiding. That’s not Ajello’s style. But the way I see it, dealing with a well-aimed bullet wound for letting him know I don’t give a fuck about his orders is a fair outcome. I’m glad he agrees.
