Caterina
“Sweetheart, sorry to miss you…”
As soon as the message starts, I realize that I can only expect bad news.
Good news deserves in-person delivery. When Nino or Father make a choice they know I won’t like, they call in the late afternoon during the workday when the chances of me answering are lower.
I rub the bridge of my nose and keep listening to my father’s voice.
“You didn’t know your Uncle Aroldo, but some years ago, Shane Gallagher caught him in Kings territory and tortured him. Asphyxiation gone wrong. He was brain damaged and never the same. Now, knowing that, who’s to say what state Sal’s in? We can’t confirm a fair trade, so no alliance. We’ll take it from here.”
They’ll take itfrom here? Take what?
My father’s never kept me out of the loop quite like this before.
Shit.
Nino got to him while I was busy working.
Leaving me out of negotiations—out of decisions—has become standard practice for Nino these days.
This irritating habit of his will get us all killed.
I spent the morning running casualty reports from missions we’ve done with the Russians, and our numbers are dire. Every time we act with them, Riccis come out on the bottom. For every one of theirs, we lose three men.
The Kings—Irish here, Port in LA—have equally dismal numbers. They’re not winning against Grigori Rostov and his Roguilin band either.
Both options seem disastrous as allies. We won’t survive on our own, though, and Finn’s as trustworthy as anyone.
I don’t get my way every time. Hell, I don’t even get my way half the time, and that’s okay. I’m happy to sacrifice my wants for the family. Formyfamily.
This feels different, though. I don’t understand why my father and brother refuse to play the smart game.
Grabbing my faux shearling coat and a cashmere scarf, I wander from my office and out to Clayfield Park. This hidden gem behind the museum is never busy, and I often find myself hiding here when I need to clear my head.
On my way in this morning, I stopped by my favorite deli. I pull half of the pepper, eggplant, and tomato sandwich from the bag and take a bite. Once flavor pops in my mouth, my frazzled nerves ease a little. Sometimes food works as a distraction technique.
A hangry Cat is no fun.
Though engrossed in my late lunch, I catch the blur at the corner of my eye as someone sits down on the other side of the bench.
“Hi, sexy.”
I nearly choke on my sandwich.
Connor Gallagher smiles, the other half of my sandwich somehow suddenly on his lap.
“Go away.” I shoo him. “This is my bench.”
He relaxes, one elbow perched on the back of the seat. “Your house…your bench. Is there anything you don’t own in this city?” He sighs, acting like the most beleaguered belle at the ball. I hate him so much. “I brought you a gift. Don’t you want to see it?”
“You have nothing I want.”
Connor’s mouth drops open in mock-offense. “You don’t even know what it is.”
I’m not entertaining this jerk.
As I stand and tighten my scarf, he flicks his thumb over his phone.
