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It’s impossible to keep Alistair out of my head for very long, and it’s only gotten worse since Massimo moved us here to New York.
Where Alistair lives. Where he has his career at his firm. Where I’ll bet he spends zero seconds thinking about me the way I think about him.
Massimo sighs as Destiny pulls away from his pathetic, half-limp dick. She pulls the front of her dress back up over her tits and wipes off her mouth in a businesslike way as she stands. She glances over to me, and we exchange a look.
This isn’t Destiny’s—or whatever her real name is—first visit to our place here in New York. She’s seen this routine of Massimo’s before.
She knows I hate this. She probably hates it, too. But money is money, and we all do things we hate in order to survive. And besides, it’s not like I bear her any ill will because she just blew my husband.
If anything, I should thank her.
Massimo exhales as he pulls up his pants before tossing an envelope at Destiny’s feet.
“Get out.”
She counts the cash inside the envelope, which is smart, because my husband is exactly the type of shithead who would short her on purpose just to make her ask for the rest. But this time at least, it’s all there. She shoots me one last look before she grabs her clutch and heads across the penthouse and out the door.
“Why Crown and Black?”
The question pops out before I can stop it. Massimo smirks as he crosses the room to the bar cart and pours himself a scotch.
“They’re an excellent firm. And because of their reputation for working with…well…” He smiles. “Men like me.”
Gangsters. He means gangsters.
“They also work with the Drakos and Kildare families, though.”
I don’t know why I’m questioning this. Or maybe I do. Maybe I want to steer Massimo away from this, because my husband working with Alistair would have my two different worlds crashing together. And going to that office tomorrow and seeing him is almost literally too much to even think about.
Which is why I bring up the fact that Crown and Black works with the preeminent Greek and Irish mafia families of New York, both of which Massimo loathes.
But mentioning those families doesn’t elicit the angry reaction I was hoping for. Instead, Massimo just smirks again.
“Well, well. Look at you. Pretending to be a lawyer again, are we?”
Fuck you.
“I am a lawyer.”
“Lawyers practice law, Eloise,” Massimo sneers with a dismissive wave.
I’ve learned not to take his bait. But Jesus Christ, sometimes it’s really hard. He knows damn well that this is one of the biggest buttons of mine that he can push: the fact that I am, in fact, a lawyer, who passed the bar in Illinois and again after we moved here in New York, but I don’t practice.
Because he won’t fucking let me.
“Why do you need me to come with you tomorrow?”
He shrugs. “I want them distracted when we talk business. The two brothers, at least. Last I heard, Ms. Crown wasn’t a carpet muncher.”
God, he’s foul.
Massimo lights a cigarette, which is yet another habit of his I hate, especially when he does it inside, in spaces we share.
“I’ve had what I want you wearing tomorrow laid out in your room. Spoiler: it’s green and short.”
My brows knit.
“Green’s not my color.”
