“Can you stop?” I cut in. “As if I would ever.”
I wasn’t judging the men and women who used Doyle’s clubs across the country. The Rabbit Hole and its various siblings catered to a very specific kind of wealthy appetite, and discretion was part of the service. But the idea of Olivero suggesting I go there to work through heartbreak was enough to make violence feel briefly restorative.
He smiled, entirely unrepentant. “Just offering options.”
“Offer other ones.”
He rose at last and pocketed the book. “Fine. Doyle it is. Though if this turns into another conversation about port authority while you secretly check your phone under the table, I reserve the right to judge you.”
“You reserve the right to do many things,” I said. “Most of them should be revoked.”
“Are you not going to tell your father?” Olivero asked once we were in the car.
I glanced at him. “Why would I?”
He started the engine. “Because you’re not sotto capo yet.”
I rolled my eyes. “Thank you for your concern, but I learned from my father long ago that it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission.”
Olivero snorted. “For you, maybe. You’re his heir. There’s the tacit understanding that he won’t kill you.”
“How comforting.”
“Me, on the other hand?” He pulled away from the curb and gave me a pointed look. “If I knowingly take you into Irish territory without saying a word, I become significantly more disposable.”
I waved a hand dismissively. “We both know you couldn’t stop me.”
“No,” he said. “But I could absolutely rat you out.”
That gave me pause. It was true. He could, and in all honesty, he probably should.
I looked at him more carefully. “Why haven’t you?”
He drove in silence for a minute before shaking his head. “I thought you were smart.”
I leaned back in my seat. “I am smarter than you.”
“Recently?” He glanced at me. “Debatable.”
I opened my mouth, but he kept going.
“And I also would have thought,” he said, “that in the last three years you might have realized I’m not your father’s man. I’m not just your bodyguard either, which, by the way, is probably the least satisfying job in the world given that you’ve never actually needed saving from anything in your life.”
He turned the wheel one-handed, expression unreadable in the passing streetlight.
“I’m your friend, you idiot,” he said. Then, after a beat, a little gruffer, “Or I’d like to think so.”
That left me feeling oddly foolish and speechless all at once.
Friendship had never come easily in my world. Most men my age in the outfit had grown up differently enough that the gap between us was perspective, not just years, and the men in power belonged more naturally to the category of mentor or future rival. So the word “friend” caught harder than it should have.
I looked out the window, then said, “Don’t worry about my father and Doyle. We’ve had an understanding with the Irish for a long time. There are ties.”
Olivero snorted softly. “Ties because Doyle’s wife is friends with Jude Montanari, and because your father made a deal with him over a decade ago.”
I shrugged. “It’s enough. And nothing will happen to you. I won’t allow it. I…” I paused, aware of how that sounded, then added more dryly, “I protect my friends.”
The small smile at the corner of his mouth was immediate.
