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14
Damian hadto force himself to leave the garden.
To leave Aria.
He wanted to throw her over his shoulder, take her somewhere far away where she couldn’t be hurt by what was going to happen.
Because she would be hurt. That was a certainty.
The only thing left to determine was whether it would be as collateral damage to his war with Primo or at the hands of her brother and Malcolm Gatti.
He got in his car, slammed his fist against the steering wheel. “Fuck!”
He took a few deep breaths, looked around to make sure no one had witnessed the embarrassing outburst. Then he put the car in gear and screeched into the intersection, cutting off a cab that was forced to slam on its breaks. The cabbie laid on his horn and Damian resisted the urge to stop in the middle of the street, go back and beat the man just for daring to exist when he was becoming increasingly pissed at the complications of having someone new in his orbit.
Namely, Aria Fiore.
He kept his foot on the gas and navigated the car toward the Upper West Side and his meeting with Farrell Black, none of which removed the image of Aria, somehow both strong and fragile, in the shed at the garden. She’d been in worn jeans and a tank top covered by a flannel shirt. Her hair had been loose, her cheek smudged with what looked like oil.
He’d never been so attracted to a woman in his life.
He’d also never been so frustrated by one.
She wasn’t stupid. He didn’t know her well, but he had seen the intelligence in her eyes, had heard it in the argument she’d made for more time when she’d come to his office. It had been a risky strategy, one she probably hadn’t made lightly. Which meant that she knew she was in danger but was willing to accept the risk for Primo.
It was an impulse Damian didn’t fully understand. He didn’t have any siblings.
He didn’t have anyone.
There had only been his mother before her death, and while he would have done anything for her, the nature of the parent/child relationship meant that she had shielded him from much of the danger associated with their situation, downplayed it in an effort to make him feel safe. It didn’t always work, but her efforts had blunted the worst of the impact.
Was there anyone he would risk his life for now? His men, of course, but that was duty, a more selfish kind of loyalty. That left Cole, although he wondered if his willingness to risk himself for Cole had more to do with the fact that he owed the other man his life.
He wanted to think of himself as courageous, but it would have been a lie. He was motivated by one thing: a desire to build his criminal empire as a fuck you to his father. He couldn’t change the fact that his father had amassed a fortune on a foundation of lies, but he could cast a dark cloud over his memory with a criminal legacy.
Aria was different, willing to sacrifice her personal safety out of love and loyalty for her brother when her own interests would be better served by running. It wouldn’t be hard. The Fiore’s must have money stashed. A lot of it. She was smart enough to tap into it, get a new passport, disappear.
And yet she stayed.
The enigma of her loyalty only made him want her more, adding a layer of mystery — and yes, admiration — to the attraction he’d felt for her since he’d first seen her at Platinum, although attraction was beginning to feel like too mild a word for the way she set his blood on fire.
Still, that’s what it was. What it had to be. He didn’t know her well enough to feel anything for her, and that was assuming he even had the capacity for such feeling.
It took him nearly forty minutes to get across town. By the time he reached The Plaza the sky was dark, the streets alive with the lights and energy of the city at night.
He pulled up to the valet, handed over the keys, and made his way into the hotel bar. He’d been surprised when Farrell had suggested The Champagne Bar, but this is what it would be like if he took the Syndicate up on their offer — meeting guys like Farrell Black at the drop of a hat, asking how high when Farrell or Nico or the others told him to jump.
Not appealing to say the least.
He strode across the lobby’s expansive marble floors, chandeliers twinkling overhead, and made his way to the bar. He spotted Farrell right away, dwarfing the frame of a diminutive wing chair and still managing to look perfectly at ease in an obviously bespoke suit. Damian lifted a hand in greeting, then detoured to the bar for a drink. When he had it in hand, he crossed the room to the area Farrell had claimed.
He didn’t rise as Damian approached, and Damian took the seat across from him without ceremony. He took a drink from the glass in his hand and looked around, taking in the high ceilings and paneled walls, the too-precious furniture and objet d’art.
“Interesting choice,” he said.
Farrell took a drink, rattled the ice in his glass. “I fucking hate this place.”
“You picked it,” Damian said.
