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Savannah wasn’t either of those things.
Barely twenty-five minutes in her company and I knew that.
Stepping over more sheets of paper, I headed for the white board and looked at what, essentially, was a crime board.
What looked like Paddy’s autopsy report was tacked on here—how the fuck she’d gained access to that I had no idea—then there were the major players of the Albanian mob back then as well as our family.
A lot of the guys on our side were dead. That’s why we had the Old Wives’ Club. Lots of widows left behind as their men were buried six feet under thanks to the Firm and the many wars my father had engaged in back when he was my age.
"Is it true?"
I jolted a little, the blast with the past taking me back in time. "Is what true?"
"That your father ran a sword through Milao Jurkavic because of what he did to Paddy?"
Grimacing, I muttered, "Is that story still going around?"
She hummed without looking up. "It is, and I highly doubt it’s a story."
"Urban legend, then."
Now, she looked up, and her eyes glinted with humor. "I’m sure there are many urban legends floating around the city because of your people, but I don’t think this is one such occasion."
If someone had told me that a semi-smile was capable of triggering a semi-boner, I’d have told them to fuck off and take some more laughing gas because that was the level of ridiculousness from that likelihood.
Yet, here I was, my dick hardening as I saw the faint curve of her lips twitch higher, and that knowing gleam in her eyes… She wasn’t trying to turn me on, was just calling me out on my bullshit.
Fuck.
I almost growled under my breath, but though I could easily have turned this into something else, could have coerced her into bed, could even have fucking seduced her if I wanted, I did none of those things.
Twisting away, I reached up to rub the back of my neck.
I wasn’t a good guy.
I wasn’t.
And maybe, this morning, before I’d met her, I’d have done every single fucking one of those things so long as I ended up between her goddamn legs.
But one thing had saved her from me.
One goddamn thing.
Isardo.
Not because he’d died. The bastard had deserved that. All fucking Italians deserved to end up skewered at some point. But that she’d seen that? That she’d witnessed it and at twelve?
Even now, my jaw clenched down at the thought.
No little girl should have to see that.
For that matter, no little boy should have to either.
I’d done worse at twelve than see someone getting gutted, and I mourned for the kid I’d never had the chance to be as much as I mourned for Savannah.
Jesus, a mobster getting maudlin. Maybe someone should just hand me a Sig Sauer right now and I could end this fucking misery?
Grunting under my breath, I said, "You do know how foolish it would be to have this place stocked up with any recording equipment, don’t you?"
