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Chapter Five
Jo
“You trust this guy?”
Mo’s suspicious mutter matches her narrowed eyes, and I look up to see Quinn on the monitor, exiting his flashy roadster and trotting up the brownstone’s steps to encounter my housekeeper and her husband, Mary and Geno Markson, both of whom have apparently appointed themselves as butlers for Quinn’s visit. I grin as Geno ogles Quinn’s car. Leave it to Quinn to break the Alliance’s rules about not drawing attention. His sleek red Ferrari is a cop magnet, easily recognized and easily tracked.
He’s either cocky or stupid—and I already know enough about Quinn to know he’s not stupid. So why the big show? Who does he want knowing he’s visiting the Prescott House, and why?
Questions I fully intend to ask, later. “I’d better trust him,” I tell Mo and remind myself. “He’s the future of the family.”
Mo snorts, but her expression doesn’t change. She’s nearly as devoted to the Prescotts as the Marksons are, and the way she treats us, you’d think she was family. Her rep as a wheel woman isn’t the only reason I hired her. She needed someone to stand up for her when no one would, and I was that person. I’d do it a hundred times over for a woman with Mo’s loyalty.
Now she backs away from the screens, however, her hands up. “I’m gonna make myself scarce while you give Johnny Irish the nickel tour. No sense letting one of the Bigs know you’re friends with the help.”
I roll my eyes. “Quinn’s best friend is probably his mechanic.”
She grins. “It’d have to be, with that fancy ride. The Italians only know fast—not reliable. That car’s probably in the shop more than it’s on the road.” She nods at the cameras. “They’re locked on him. He’s good.”
“He’s definitely that.” I keep my smile under wraps. Mo leaves, and I lean forward to tweak the sensors that are now tracking Quinn, my smile broadening as the data comes rolling in. I’m still focused on those monitors when Quinn arrives, chatting easily with the Marksons.
“—and everything in the house is mint condition, perfectly cared for,” Geno boasts as they enter the surveillance room, and I smile. The small, wiry old man has cared for the house since I was a baby, and he’s fiercely proud of every square inch of it. “Anything you need, I can get for you.”
“I thank you for it,” Quinn says, his Irish brogue making me shiver as I take in the sight of him in the flesh. It’s way, way more impressive than any video shot can convey.
Today Quinn’s dressed in a dark suit and mint green shirt, open at the neck, with a platinum banded watch glinting at his wrist and the deep emerald O’Reilly signet ring flashing on one of his fingers. With his clothes, his swagger, his grin and his flashing green eyes, he’s a walking advertisement for the Irish mob, and I wonder if he even knows it.
“You didn’t meet me at the door,” he announces before I can get a word out, and though his grin remains, his tone is edged with annoyance. “From anyone else, I’d say it was disrespect. Tell me I’m wrong.”
I knew this was coming—Quinn’s known for his pride—but I don’t apologize. “It’s not disrespect, it’s security.” I turn back to my console and punch up the image of him on my doorstep on monitor 6. “I didn’t want to block any of the angles to you. You’ll notice my people stayed far back from you, too.”
He narrows those beautiful eyes. “I did notice that. Why?”
“Baseline data collection. You were being recorded from the moment you exited your car. Your smile, your gestures, your walk, your hands. When you got close enough, we nicked your heart rate and blood pressure, too, as well as a few other vitals. I needed you alone in the shot because I wanted the baseline as clean as possible.”
“And that’s important why?”
“It’s important for your own safety,” I explain. “If you’re anywhere I have eyes on you and your heartrate is out of whack, your body too rigid, your walk off kilter, I’ll be notified.” I shoot him a glance. “Only if you approve, of course. But that’s the game of this tech. It’ll pick up physical reactions you may not even know you’re having, as well as tells. If you’re in disguise, it won’t matter.”
He offers a grudging nod. “You’ll know it’s me.”
“Yup. Tech doesn’t lie. It’s like a full-body, digital fingerprint.”
“Impressive.” He waits a beat. “You sure you don’t secretly just get off on filming people?”
The question is so unexpected it completely throws me for a loop, and I blink, but Quinn keeps going. “Is that the intel you’ve pulled on the families?”
I nod, more tentatively this time. “It is.”
“You went in hard and deep?”
“Ah—yes.” I blink rapidly in surprise, but Quinn’s tone is casual, unperturbed, and a quick scan of his vitals on the screen indicates the same. He didn’t mean the double entendre, I’m simply a pervert, apparently. Good to know.
I hand over the dossier, not missing how quickly he pulls it from me. Is Quinn pissed that I recorded him? Well, too bad. I’m going to get a lot of useful data out of that reading, especially because he stayed relaxed and unaware. As relaxed and unware as the head of the O’Reilly family ever is, anyway.
And is he right? Do I secretly just want Quinn on my screen? Watching him…needing him?
“What am I looking at?” Quinn interrupts me, and I swivel my gaze to him.
