Six

Chapter 6

Dominic

Breakfast is a cup of coffee. Black, because that’s the only way to enjoy it properly.

When Elio knocks on my door at 7:00 a.m. sharp, I’m ready to go.

He hands me a thick manila folder, walking while talking. “Cops busted the Renato’s gambling den in Chinatown,” he explains as we head to the elevator.

“Any casualties?”

“None. They raided the place last night, but it was empty.” “Shame.”

“Do you think we should swoop in there? Renato’s men spook easy. I doubt they’ll be returning any time soon now that the location’s been made.”

“That’s Lorenzo’s call, not mine.”

“But we been trying to get a foothold in Chinatown for ages—”

“Do you want a turf war on our hands?” I snap. “Drop it, Elio. It’s good enough that the Renatos are running scared. There’s a good chance their clientele will come flocking to our location on Seventh. Let the cops do the hard work for us.”

Elio nods. “You’re the boss.”

A black Maserati is waiting outside for me. I recognize the associates standing by the curb, on guard. They’re not dressed in impeccable suits—and they won’t get to until they’ve proven themselves worthy of the title made man — so they look more like a professional security team than members of the Mob.

“Good morning, Mr. Costello,” they greet in unison.

I nod at the one opening the passenger door for me. “Johnny, how’re the kids?”

Johnny’s one of our younger associates. He’s as dumb as a brick, but he’s eager to please and a hard worker. I happen to think that’s a good thing. It’s

the associates with a little too much ambition and drive that you have to look out for.

“They’re good, Mr. Costello. Thank you for asking.” “Did they end up going to that comic book convention?”

“Yes, they did. They had a great time. I used the bonus you gave me last month to buy them the tickets.”

“Glad to hear it,” I say, slipping into the car. “Gentlemen.”

Elio gets behind the wheel, merging seamlessly into traffic. “You’re like a damn pop star to them. I’ve never seen Johnny so starry-eyed.”

I ignore my second-in-command and open the folder, pouring over the financial reports. This is technically Lorenzo’s job, but he entrusted me to keep everything running smoothly while he’s away. It’s grueling, mind- numbing work, but someone’s got to do it.

“The nail salon is underperforming again,” I mutter, mentally crunching the numbers.

“There’s been a recent increase in police presence in the area,” Elio explains. “It’s hard to print counterfeit bills when the cops are always sniffin’ around.”

“Don’t we have a mole inside? We can have him shift some of the heat away.”

“He got caught two nights ago. He’s been sittin’ pretty in holding.” “Why wasn’t I informed?”

“I thought you were. Milo said he’d tell you.”

My nostrils flare. His name is more grating than nails screeching across a chalkboard. We were both born into the life — legacies of legacies — but we started off as associates just like everyone else. For years, he’s been a massive pain in my ass. Sure, he’s loyal, but to the Family, not to me. He’s been gunning for me ever since Lorenzo appointed me his right-hand man. Where I got ahead by keeping my head down, following orders, and working hard, Milo got ahead by specializing in cheating, brownnosing, and pinning the blame on others.

Simply put: a rat.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I sigh. “I’ll deal with him later.” “What do you want me to do about the nail salon?”

“Give them a warning. Lorenzo’s going to be back in a few weeks. I’m sure they’d like to avoid a visit from him.”

“Will do.”

Elio brings the car around on time, but there’s already a line of waiting customers wrapping around the building, at least fifteen of them, all of them smelling of desperation. I’d turn them away if I could, but I’m under direct orders never to turn anyone away. Lorenzo’s loan shark business is what brings in the majority of his racket’s money. For better or for worse — usually for worse — these people are always approved.

My morning goes by quickly. I hear sob story after sob story, excuse after excuse. I don’t particularly enjoy the insidious nature of this job, but I’ve never disobeyed my capo’s direct order, nor will I start now. I approve loan after loan, pay them in cold hard cash, then send them on their merry way.

Many of them express their thanks, their gratitude. I wish they wouldn’t. Nobody should ever thank the man who helped them sign away their soul. They’ll be singing a different tune when it’s time for me to collect on their payments and they realize far too late that there was no hope for them in the first place.

By noon, I’m exhausted and ready to call it quits. Even with the sleep aids my doctor prescribed me, I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since the funeral. I’m haunted by the sounds of the screaming, the violent ring of gunshots ripping through the air, the memory of the light draining from my brother’s eyes. If anything, the sleep aids only exacerbate my nightmares. I’d rather not sleep at all.

There’s a knock at my door; must be another potential customer. I don’t have an appointment scheduled for this one, so I figure it must be a walk-in.

“Come in,” I command.

In walks a woman with long black hair and legs for days. She’s dressed plainly in a pair of light blue jeans with a fitted black V-neck tucked in, accentuating her ample breasts and the sleek curves of her hips. She has a grey garment bag draped over her left arm and a folder tucked under her right. All in all, much more put together than the usual sort to come into my office.

Her eyes do me in. A delicate grey that reminds me of the winter sky after a heavy snowstorm. They’re strangely familiar. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve met this woman before.

Her mouth drops open when she sees me. “You,” she breathes.

And then it hits me. Five years ago. The breathtaking spitfire of a woman I met at the airport. The one Milo scared off, insisting he did no such thing.

“Marina,” I reply slowly, rising from my chair. I round the desk and take

a careful step toward her. She mirrors me, taking a step toward me, staring as if she’s seen a ghost.

“You remember?” she whispers. “How could I forget?”

The air between us is electric. She’s so close I can smell the sweet vanilla scent of her shampoo. She hasn’t changed all that much in five years. If anything, she’s even more beautiful than the day I met her. She’s close enough to touch, close enough to kiss…

But a thought occurs to me, one that makes my stomach clench. “What are you doing here?” I ask firmly.

She frowns, turning a little to read the name painted on the glass window of Lorenzo’s door. “I’m here to talk to somebody about getting a loan. Am I in the right place?”

I almost scoff. I have half a mind to chase her out. This is no place for a woman like her. Signing a deal with her will only worsen her troubles. For whatever reason, I refuse to put her in a position where Lorenzo can dig his claws into her.

She puts a hand on her hip. “Well?” she asks, not unkindly. “Am I in the right place?”

Say no, say no, say no. “You’re in the right place.” Fucking idiot.

I gesture to the guest chair, pulling it out for her while she takes a seat. Instead of returning to my chair, I stand in front of her, leaning against the edge of the desk.

“I didn’t know you worked here,” she says gently, looking around. “It’s quite the coincidence.”

“Yes. Quite.” “How’ve you been?”

Ha. Isn’t that a loaded question. “Good,” I answer simply. “You?” “Good.”

Her eyes rake over my body, her plump lips parted just so. Her cheeks are an adorable shade of pink, her chest rising and falling at a noticeably slow pace.

I clench and unclench my fists. This was not how I was expecting today to go. My fingers itch to reach out, touch her, hold her. How many nights did

I spend sleepless, wondering what happened to her after our chance encounter at the airport? Did she look for me just as I tried looking for her? It took months for me to stop kicking myself for not getting her number, for not chasing her through the airport and setting Milo’s gaffe to rights. But now she’s here, breathtakingly gorgeous…

And in the middle of Lorenzo’s shark tank.

Curiosity burns in the pit of my stomach. I want to know what she’s doing here. I’m normally not this invested, but I have to know. Because maybe I can keep her from making one of the biggest mistakes of her life.

“You said you’re looking for a loan,” I prompt.

She sits up a bit straighter, quickly reaching for her folder. She hands it to me, something heartbreakingly hopeful painting her expression. “Yes, that’s right. My business plan is all here.”

I open the folder and take a quick glance. “You’re asking for twenty- thousand dollars?”

“That’s right. To start my own fashion label.” “Why not go to a bank?”

“I tried. Several times.”

“And their reasons for rejection?” “Lack of credit.”

“How much do you have currently saved?” “Only two grand.”

Oof.

If this were anyone else, I’d approve them on the spot. It’s shady practice to give a loan to someone with a shit track record, but that’s how sharks make their money. Tack on a 300% interest rate to the lump sum and you’ll be rolling in cash until the customer’s pockets are bled dry.

Somewhere deep down, I refuse to let that happen to her. I can’t explain where this protectiveness comes from, and I know for a fact that I haven’t suddenly grown a conscience, but I won’t have a part in ruining this woman’s life.

I close the folder and shake my head. “Look—” “Wait,” she says hastily. “Let me convince you.” Oh, I shouldn’t like the way she says that. “Convince me?”

“I brought a few of my dresses,” she says. “I made them myself. Let me prove to you that my work is a worthy investment. My label will pay for

itself.”

I set my jaw. This whole thing is a bad idea.

My straining cock, on the other hand, is simply excited to be this close to her. And seeing her in a pretty dress? How can I possibly say no to that?

“I need you to turn around,” she says. “I’m going to model one of my dresses for you.”

“What?”

“Please?” She blinks up at me with those pretty grey eyes, her long lashes fluttering.

“Okay,” I murmur, too lost in her gaze.