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7
Aria busiedherself at the bar as Primo and Malcolm made themselves comfortable at one of the tables in the sunken portion of the club reserved for their best customers. Everyone had been ordered to come in late, although Primo had installed Vinnie and two other men in one of the VIP rooms in the back. Aria didn’t know much about the impending meeting with Damian Cavallo, but she’d overheard Malcolm insist they hedge their bets with the added security in spite of the agreement they’d made with Cavallo that called only for the presence of underbosses.
It was nearly seven p.m., and the club was empty without the employees who usually arrived early to set up for the night. Aria hadn’t planned to be there, but Primo had insisted for reasons she couldn’t understand. She wasn’t part of their business. Not in any way that mattered. She didn’t know the details behind the meeting with Cavallo, didn’t know anything about the man himself except what she’d overheard between Primo and Malcolm — that Damian Cavallo had commandeered an impressive portion of the city’s criminal enterprise, that he was a rich kid who’d decided to dabble in crime when he got bored playing with his family’s old money.
He sounded like an asshole.
She’d never tried to defend Primo’s business. It was illegal, much of it unseemly. She knew that. But they’d come to it out of necessity. Primo had dropped out of school after the first year, had never been able to hold down a job for long thanks to his mental illness. He’d been ill-suited to take charge of her upbringing. The business he’d built had saved them in more ways than one.
Only time would tell if it would also destroy them.
“Ari, bring us a bottle of that good vodka we got in today,” Primo said from across the room.
She traveled the length of the bar, stopped at the box she was unloading from one of their suppliers. Then she stacked a tray with four glasses and carried it over to the table.
Primo was nervous. She could tell from his rigid posture, the way he tapped his fingers on the tabletop. It stood in contrast to Malcolm who was slouched on the sofa that sat along one side of the table, his legs stretched out like it was just another day in the VIP room with Primo.
She set the vodka and glasses down on the table and rested an arm on Primo’s shoulder. “Anything else?”
He patted her hand. “No, thank you.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to leave?” She tried to keep the hope out of her voice. She wanted to support him, but she had no desire to be sucked into the business. It was easier to pretend their income was generated legally through Platinum.
She knew it made her a coward, but it was the only coping mechanism she had until she figured out a way to get Primo out from under Malcolm’s thumb.
He squeezed her hand hard enough to be painful, but his face betrayed nothing. “Stay.”
She nodded, made her way back to the bar, her stomach fluttering with nerves. The meeting was supposed to be a simple discussion, but she knew better than anyone that nothing was assured with Primo. A wrong word or sudden movement could lead to an outburst — and an outburst with Primo and Malcolm and the three men hidden in the back room was sure to end badly even without taking into consideration the fact that Damian Cavallo was a criminal in his own right.
She’d broken down the first box of liquor and was cutting the tape on another when she heard footsteps on the stairs. She stood, trying to look busy as the first man emerged from the narrow stairwell.
He was tall and muscular, his blond hair cut surprisingly short and highlighting a slightly crooked nose and striking blue eyes. The whole effect was one of classical beauty — the kind of face sculptors had molded from clay for centuries.
She was still reeling from her first impression of Damian Cavallo — a perfect kind of beauty she recognized that left her cold — when the second man followed him into the club.
And there was nothing cold about this man.
He was a few inches taller than the man who’d entered the club before him, and where the first man was blond and impassive, this one was dark and brooding, his hair as black as the feathers of a raven, long and falling over eyes like chips of onyx.
His shoulders were broad, pulling at the midnight blue button-down that fit his upper body like it had been poured on him, hanging loosely over black jeans that did nothing to hide a significant bulge between his legs.
He met her eyes across the bar, and she noticed with embarrassment the tidal wave moving through her body— the quickening pulse, the warmth of her cheeks, the heat between her legs.
She turned away quickly, reorganizing the glasses at the bar just to escape the homing beacon of his gaze.
The men made introductions behind her, their voices only confirming what she’d realized the moment the dark haired man stepped into the club.
He was Damian Cavallo.
She’d known as soon as she laid eyes on him that this wasn’t a man who took orders from anyone. He carried himself like a king, one who was certain of his place in the world. He’d prowled into the room like a predator — unhurried, sure of his eventual victory.
She was suddenly worried about Primo.
Her hands shook as she unloaded the bottles from the box, set them on the shelves behind the bar, her eyes on the mirror that reflected the room behind her. The men waited quietly as Primo poured vodka into the glasses, followed by the clink of a wordless toast.
She didn’t turn around until she heard Primo’s voice.
“You asked for the meeting,” he said. “Here we are.”
