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“No.”
She huffs. “Wow. 200 bucks wasted.”
I laugh. “Not my problem.”
The clothes get folded in no time with her help. She continues the entire time, trying to convince me that going out will be good for me. And maybe it will, but I just don’t feel like it. Not when my heart isn’t in it.
“I’ll let you sleep in. I’ll make breakfast for the kids and get Max to the sitter. I’ll even drop Em off at her softball practice.”
My ears perk at that offer. When was the last time I could sleep in? Never. I swirl the options in my head, playing each outcome out. If I’m the DD, I can’t drink. I’ll get sober sleep, which means I’ll be well-rested for work tomorrow. Veronica is young. I have no doubt that she’ll be able to party it up tonight, then get up in the morning and act like nothing is wrong. I don’t envy her for that, but I’ll certainly take advantage of it.
I chew on the inside of my cheek, then grab that favorite black dress of mine. “Fine, but you better not wake me up until we have to leave to get to the hotel.”
Veronica shrieks excitedly, jumping up and down. “Kids! I’ll throw in another twenty if you come put away these clothes!” she sings as she hurries out of my room.
Chapter Three
ClubRoyaleisinsanelycrowded as I make my way along the edge of the room to get to the VIP section. A DJ plays music in the far corner on a platform, and the stereos surrounding him bounce with the volume. My ears ring, and I quicken my pace to get into the hallway with soundproof walls.
I fucking hate coming here, but it’s the only way Antonio Rossi will meet with me. Public and on his turf. It may have to do with how I kneecapped one of his capos at a meeting on Irish territory a few years ago.
That meeting was one of the very few times I lost control of my rage in a business setting. I’m pretty good at maintaining face and keeping my composure. That day, though? That day, Cara had visited me in my dreams. It wasn’t a light, free one. Sometimes when she visits, she laughs and is happy, carefree. Others, she’s in a more sensual mood. But this dream. That night, she’d visited me with tears in her eyes, blood streaming from her wrists.
I tossed and turned, unable to pull myself awake. It was a catch-22. I didn’t want to see those images in my sleep, but the dream had been so real. I could smell her, feel her, hear her. I didn’t want it to end because of that. She clawed at me, scratching and begging me to let her go while I held on, begging her not to do what she had done.
When I woke, I was sweaty, my heart hammering in my chest. The last thing I wanted to do was discuss territories and other bullshit that didn’t matter with the Italians. So, when the asshole called me an Irish prick, I let the heat inside of me grow to its boiling point, and I gave him something to whine about.
The memory is quite satisfying now, as I walk up the steps to the private rooms in the club. Private isn’t the right word, though. There is a glass wall in each room that overlooks the dance floor. Only the rich rent out these rooms. It provides access to the floor and allows you to see the crowd of people dancing, but the music is dimmed inside.
I move past the glass rooms and make another right to the back offices, where Antonio and his crew wait for me. Scotty saunters behind, hands stuffed into his pockets. It’s been a few months since he’s been with me to a meeting, and the only reason he’s at this one is because my sister insisted on it.
Scotty’s used to being a guard, not a brother. So, he steps in front of me when we reach the office, ready to be the first one to take a bullet if needed. But he’s not a guard anymore. He’s my sister’s fiancé. That makes him more important than me. Saoirse can deal with a dead brother, not a dead husband. I press my hand on his chest and shove him back.
He grumbles in protest, and I shoot him a dirty look.
“My sister would kill me if you came back hurt. Get used to it,prince,”I say, the word dripping with a taunting tone. Scotty calls my sister a princess, so that clearly makes him the prince. He’s going to have a field day when he realizes my brother, Sean, changed his marker from ‘Frog’ to ‘Prince.’
Scotty scrubs a hand down his face. “I don’t think I will ever get used to it,” he murmurs.
I nod, pushing open the door. A bodyguard stands before me to be intimidating. His shoulders are square, a scowl placed on his face. But he’s about three inches shorter than me and lacking thirty pounds of muscle. I could easily take him if I wanted. But he’s not here in case of a fight. He’s here to pat me down and ensure I have no guns. His name is Ricco, and it’s always the same guy.
“Make it snappy, Richy,” I say, purposely calling him by the wrong name.
I like to keep everyone on their toes. The only people that know about my memory are my brothers. Not even Saoirse knows how easy it is for me to recall a conversation or a contract with just the tug of a wire attached to those memories.
Hell, even Scotty doesn’t know. If he did, he’d be nicer to me. He’d realize just how fucked I am, always picturing the death of Cara—his sister.
I open my arms as Ricco pats me down, his hands gripping my balls. I lean down and swat at him. “Hands off the jewels, asshole.”
“Seriously,” Scotty says. “Do they think you’ve got a gun shoved up your ass?”
“I did.” I nod. “But don’t worry, Tone,” I say, my gaze dropping to Antonio Rossi, who’s sitting on the couch in the corner, a cigar in hand. “I made sure I left it on the nightstand at home.”
“How considerate of you,” Rossi says and takes an inhale of his cigar. He leans forward and sets the cigar on the table, then reaches for a decanter of whiskey.
Ricco finishes patting me down, then moves onto Scotty. I approach the couch, accepting the glass he poured for me. “Tone, this is my brother-in-law, Scotty.”
“Which one are you?” Rossi asks, leaning back, his arms wrapping along the back of the couch. “Are you the fruitcake one?”
