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That list of names is at the forefront of my mind, and I pull up the file on my laptop while waiting for Sebastian to show up. I don't normally like taking meetings over the weekend—especially now that I have someone much more interesting here at home—but I have kept Sebastian waiting long enough. I do want to solidify our relationship. That means making good on my promise to give him a percentage of what we recovered, thanks to his helpful tip.
I remember every single one of these deals, and off the top of my head, I can't recall anyone being dissatisfied or even complaining about the grief Charlie was giving me at the time. I never considered him much of a threat, and it would surprise me to think any of these hard-bitten, experienced men balking over a single detective asking too many questions.
Stranger things have happened. Here I am, in love with his daughter. I couldn't have predicted that.
I’m arranging names in what I think is the order of their likelihood of being the perpetrator when Romero’s footsteps ring out in the hall. “Henry called up from the gate. Costello’s here a few minutes early.”
“That's fine. Show him in.” I stand and button my jacket, looking out the window in time to catch a glimpse of Sebastian stepping from his car. He has three guards with him, his driver included, all of whom make an imposing image clustered around the Maserati.
This smart ass. I see the way he looks up at the house while removing his sunglasses. Is he considering a place like this for himself one day? Or maybe this house in particular. Not that I want to give in to suspicion, but I recognize his hungry look. I need to be careful with this kid.
He's all smiles when he enters the room a minute later, extending a hand to shake. “Mr. Torrio. I was glad to hear you recovered your shipment.”
“Thanks to you.” I'm careful to avoid Romero’s penetrating stare as I gesture for Sebastian to take a seat. “Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thank you, I'm fine.” He unbuttons his jacket and makes himself comfortable. “I was hoping you'd given some more thought to the prospect of us working together.”
“You've already proven yourself a valuable ally. And I was impressed with your prospectus. I think we could make this work.” I hold out a hand, signaling Romero to bring me the agreement we compiled. “This is a counteroffer, if you will. Our terms work within the parameters of the terms you've already set. If you go over this and don't find any problems, we can move forward.”
“I’ll have my team take a look, but I can't see any reason there would be issues.” I watch as he scans the information, his eyes moving over the page.
“I'm glad to hear it.”
“So Moroni isn't a problem anymore?” Only his eyes move, lifting from the page and meeting mine.
“He hasn’t shown his face.”
“That's not what I was asking. Don't get me wrong,” he's quick to add when my brows draw together, “whatever he brings, we can handle. If you need extra security on your barges, I can arrange that. We'll make this work. But I do need to know, you understand. What am I getting into?”
“It's handled.” I hold his gaze, unblinking, daring him to fuck with me. I don't need him nearly as much as he needs me to give him a way to move his weapons.
“Good to know.” He smiles—the quick, sure smile of someone who thinks they're untouchable. I would hate to see reality come crashing in on him someday. He’s hot shit, sure, but he’s untested. And he's already trying my patience.
I hear her before I see her, her voice filling the room all at once. “We decided not to go to the movie—”
Our three heads turn to find Bianca standing in the doorway, her eyes wide and face turning red. “I am so sorry,” she whispers, backing away. “I should’ve known you were in a meeting, only the door was open.”
And I didn't expect her back so soon. For lack of anything better to offer, I murmur, “Sebastian Costello, meet Bianca Cole.”
He grins, standing, extending a hand. “I’ve been looking forward to making your acquaintance,” he tells her, and unexpectedly his voice is much warmer than it was before. “I heard you’re mighty dangerous with a fork.”
Now her horrified flush is more like a nervous blush. “Not one of my proudest moments,” she whispers, but a smile tugs at her lips.
“I would’ve loved to see it,” he replies, oozing charm.
I wonder how long it would take to strangle him. It’s irrational as fuck to be angry at another man for talking to her, but she is mine. Her voice and smiles should be saved for only me. He doesn’t deserve to bask in her happiness.
