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Her shoulders stiffened, preparing for an argument that she wouldn’t win.
“I need the money from the Grotto togoto California,” she said, enunciating each word as if he was hard of hearing.
“It’s not a safe place, and I can’t sit there during each of your shifts as I’ve been doing.”
She scoffed, crossing her arms. “I’ve survived there this long.”
“Do you enjoy working there?”
That was the real question, he supposed. He’dnevertake away something she enjoyed, but he couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to work there when presented with another option.
“The money’s good.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
She made her way closer to him and placed herself between him and the pillar. “Unlike you, money is more important than the job title to me right now. I can’t afford to be picky.”
He stepped closer, taking the opportunity to press her against the pillar, both hands on her hips.
He lowered his voice. “Answer the question.”
She bit her bottom lip and sighed, relaxing into his touch. “No, I don’t enjoy working at the Grotto.”
“That’s what I thought. That’s why this place is yours.”
She froze, reacting exactly as he’d expected.
He hadn’t had to do much to get the title assigned to her other than signing a contract that the place could be used for events twice a month with a minimum of five days’ notice. It had been one of the mafia-owned buildings already, though it had never been put to much use. His splinter cell had to create legal fronts for many less-than-legal dealings.
He wouldn’t mention that the deal had gone through smoothly thanks to the higher-ups, who knew Kiera Zanders would be an asset to the organization. The higher-ups had threatened her and insisted on monetizing that grave insult as repayment.
The mafia was nothing if not a firm believer in an eye for an eye.
“No, it’s not,” she said, shaking her head quickly, eyes wide.
“It used to belong to a known artist—a man who donated it to us to pay a debt. It’s been empty for over eight months, other than a few charity events,” he started, but she cut him off.
“No, you don’t understand. I can’tafforda gallery, not while saving for art school. " She lifted a hand and placed it on her forehead. “I can’t accept this.”
“If you accept, you will not be paying for the gallery unless you decide to buy out the building,” he explained. If possible, her eyes widened more. “You’d be running this place and only giving it to us for events twice a month. This gallery would be yours to do with as you please. Spend all day painting if you want. Put your paintings for sale or display. Start painting classes. It doesn’t matter what you do if you accept the offer.”
She struggled to find words. Vincent watched as confusion and shock filled her eyes. She didn’t know what to say or how to react to what he’d sprung on her.
“I—I can’t make enough selling my paintings.”
Oh, he’d seen the large sums of money she brought home from allowing grown men to handle her body like a piece of meat night after night. He knew it would be hard to top what she made, but he’d thought that through, too.
“You’d be a paid member of the mafia.”
“Hell no,” she spat before she even considered, giving him no time to speak. “I know the mafia does good things, but I will not go down with the ship when the entire organization combusts. I’m not going to do illegal things to make money.”
He didn’t bother mentioning that allowing men to handle her bordered illegal.
“Nothing illegal,” he told her. When she opened her mouth to argue again, he continued. “We have civilians contracted to run businesses everywhere in the city, and none do illegal dealings. They are paid weekly wages for using their business spacestwice a month. There are hundreds of people paid by the overall organization who are involved in nothing illegal.”
“Hundreds?”
He nodded and bent, placing his forehead on hers. “I handle the worst of the worst. Many people never do immoral or illegal for the mafia.”
