Page 10 of A Dangerous Kind of Love

We move through the hall toward the kitchen.

“The shipment from Oakland came in around ten,” he continues. “Adam signed off on everything.”

I grab a glass from the counter and fill it with water when Bella steps into the doorway.

“Mr. Amato?”

I glance over.

“Miss Rosalia called earlier this evening,” she says. “She wanted to confirm brunch for tomorrow.”

It’s nearly three in the morning.

“Call her at eight. Tell her it’s fine.”

She nods and disappears. I finish the water and head for the staircase. Marco stops at the bottom.

“Anything else?” I ask.

“No, Boss.”

Upstairs, my bedroom is dark and quiet. I reach to my side, pull the pistol from its holster, and drop it into the drawer of my bedside table. The drawer slides shut with a quiet click, and for a moment I stand there beside the bed, rolling the tension out of my shoulders. Most nights by the time I reach this room my mind is already shutting down, the noise of the day fading into the quiet that settles over the house after midnight. Tonight it doesn’t. Tonight my mind keeps circling back to a bartender with blue eyes and a mouth that doesn’t know when to quit.

I pull my phone from my pocket and dial.

“Boss.”

“I need a car picked up,” I say, loosening the cuff of my shirt as I cross the room. “It’s in the alley behind Jefferson’s downtown, off 23rd Street. Blue Honda.”

“Understood.”

“Take it to the shop and go through the whole thing. Engine, brakes, tires—everything. I don’t care what it costs.”

“Yes, sir.”

“When it’s finished, put it in the owner’s driveway.” I give him Katie’s address.

“It’ll be there by morning.”

The call disconnects. I drop the phone onto the nightstand and sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing a hand down my face. A woman with absolutely no sense of self-preservation gave me her number tonight. Most women in this city spend their time trying to get my attention. She acted like I was a serial killer.

A laugh escapes me. Tomorrow morning she’s going to walk outside and find her car running perfectly. I can already imagine the message I’m going to get, and for some reason, I’m looking forward to it.

My alarm rings at six a.m. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. My head pounds from one too many whiskeys the night before and not nearly enough sleep. There’s a knock at my door.

“Mr. Amato, may I enter?”

“Come in, Beatrice.”

The door opens, and Beatrice, my senior housemaid, steps inside. She’s in her sixties now, but she’s been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. She was my nanny when I was a boy, the one who made sure I ate, slept, and stayed out of trouble. When I grew too old for that, my parents moved her to the kitchen.

When they returned to Sicily, and I took over the house, I gave her this position.

“Beatrice, why do you insist on calling me that?” I sit up on my elbows. “You’ve known me for thirty-six years.”

“Sir, you are the master of this house. It is a sign of respect.” She’s lived in the States for forty years, but her Italian accent still clings to every word. “Now get up. You have a lot to do before brunch with that fiancée of yours.”

She narrows her eyes when she says it, as if the word itself leaves a nasty taste in her mouth. I chuckle and push myself out of bed.