Training schedule says you should’ve been at the gym two hours ago.
Tank fight is less than two weeks away.
Get your ass in gear.
I stare at the message for a few seconds then shove the phone back in my pocket without responding.
One crisis at a time.
First things first, I’ve got to sort through this bullshit before any more documents pile up. One minute passes and then another.
I’m still staring at the stupid paperwork as minute three approaches and somebody taps their knuckles on the door.
“Shouldn’t you be in the den?” I grunt.
Jhene slips deeper into the room, dark eyes sweeping over the space from behind her large glasses. “I got bored.”
“Bored? What’re you, five?”
“There’s only so long a person can spend studying the Callahan family tapestry.” She stops in front of the floor-to-ceiling bookcase and trails a finger along the spine of a leatherbound book perched on the shelf. “Did you know there’s a whole section dedicated to the 1800s? Riveting stuff. Really kept me on the edge of my seat.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Five minutes without your sarcasm would be a treat.”
“Maybe for your birthday.”
“More like maybe you shouldn’t make a habit of wandering around a mobster’s house. Not a smart idea.”
“I didn’t think so either. And yet here I am.”
She wanders over to the desk next. Her gaze falls to the pile of papers spread across the surface. Invoices, receipts, expense reports, ledgers—all the shit I’ve been avoiding for weeks, now gathered like a scrapbook of my inadequacy.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Trying to catch up on some of the business side of things.” I scrub a hand over my face, fingers scratching at the scruff. “Ronan usually handles this, but with him gone...”
I trail off before admitting how badly I’ve let things slide. Between the Bratva tensions and training for my big fight and trying to keep Jhene alive, the paperwork’s fallen to the bottom of my priority list.
…which would be fine if numbers weren’t my kryptonite.
Jhene stares for so long I’m sure she’s about to drop another dry, sarcastic comment. She’s about to make a wisecrack that she didn’t know meathead enforcers do math or that brutes in the Irish mob were so sophisticated to keep business records.
She nudges her glasses further up her nose and says, “You’re holding the ledger upside down.”
I glance down and realize she’s right.
Fucking hell.
“Damn it,” I grumble aloud.
“You know…” she says slowly. “I could help. If you want.”
“I don’t need any help. Go back to the den. Where’s Oona? She should come collect you.”
Her brows push together, the slight curve of her lips hinting at amusement. “I’m just saying… if you let me help you, then the business side of things is out of your hairandI’m no longer bored.”
She’s got a point, and that pisses me off even more.
My glower doesn’t let up as I fumble with the papers like a fucking bear trying to solve a Rubik’s cube. After another minute of painful silence, I shove the ledger toward her.
