Page 168

He’s right. I am stalling.

And I’m not quite sure why.

Is it because opening it feels like admitting something? Not about the gift itself, whatever terrifyingly generous act of organized crime Kane has tucked inside.

About us.

There is an us now, apparently. And this “us” involves sitting on laps in front of his whole organization, and making out in kitchens. This “us” has something to do with hands wandering up beneath the hems of dresses that they really should not be wandering underneath.

This “us” is fucking complicated.

If Kane were merely extorting me, I could file him neatly in the mental cabinet reserved for men I wouldn’t let within a thousand yards of my lady parts.

But extortionists aren’t supposed to seat you next to them.

They don’t remember your hangover order or look at you in a family photograph the way he was looking at me.

And I am not supposed to like being wanted this much.

My thumb slides beneath the flap, then retreats.

Coward. Sensible coward, but still.

Because once I open it, I participate. I accept that this thing is changing shape faster than croissant dough in an overheated kitchen. I acknowledge that the sexual undertone has become a sexual air-raid siren.

Kane waits.

I set my phone facedown.

“Fine,” I say. “What is it, anyway? Did Connor sign over a kidney?”

“Why, do you need one? Say the word and I’ll send a man over with a scalpel.”

I shudder. “I’m pretty sure you’re joking, but I’m not sure enough to laugh.”

Still smirking, Kane points at the envelope again.

I work my finger under the flap and remove four documents.

The first is a copy of a gambling debt agreement. Connor’s name is printed across the top, followed by an account number and an amount large enough to make my eyes bulge out.

His signature is at the bottom.

The second document identifies the security he pledged against the debt: his car.

The third is a formal demand for payment.

The fourth is a receipt confirming that the car was surrendered at 3:29 P.M. this afternoon.

I read all four pages again. Then I drop them and gawk at Kane. “You’re gonna have to explain this to me in a very slow, very clear voice, because I’m confused as all hell right now.”

Kane leans back in his chair. “Your ex-husband likes cards,” he says. “Unfortunately, he’s bad at them. He borrowed money from a man in Marine Park to keep playing. And unfortunately again, that man works for me.”

“And the car?”

“He pledged it. He didn’t pay. So I took it.” Kane shrugs. “That’s all this is, Lilah. He made a promise. He broke it. I collected. It’s long past time that Mr. Boyd learns there are consequences to his actions.”

I look down at the receipt, then back up at Kane. My head is still spinning.