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“Say it.”
“Nah. You need to go shower, you reek of milk.”
His eyes narrow dangerously at me. A thrill teases through my body.
Okay, I’m goading him now.
Sex withdrawal isreal.
“Courtesy of Pam.”
I grin as Alistair sets a large cooler down on the desk between us, already knowing what’s inside.
“Oh my God,yessss.” I groan as I pop the cooler open to reveal the half dozen Tupperware juice containers filled with the creamy, greenish smoothies Pam makes for me.
She’s given me the recipe before. But they always turn out like crap when I’ve tried to make them myself, no idea why. Making them at Dante’s house has proven to be impossible anyway, what with his carpet ban on dairy products. The French vanilla yogurt in Pam’s recipe is crucial, and the tyrant king control freak I live with now threw out both containers of the stuff that I stuck in his fridge before I could even use them.
Asshole.
“Want one?”
Alistair makes a face as I pop one open right there in his office and take a big gulp. “Absolutely not.”
This morning, in a fit of, well, homesickness I guess, I texted both of my brothers about meeting up for lunch. Gabriel was in court all day, but Alistair said yes, as long as lunch could be delivered to the office.
People have often asked me why both of my brothers, with their looks and success, are still single. I’m sure most people assumeit’s because they like playing the field. The reality is, they’re both married to their work.
Alistair opens the take-out containers from Wo Hop, aka the best Chinese food spot in all of New York City, and slides my pork fried rice toward me.
“So—”
“I’m fine, Alistair.”
He scowls. He hates when I cut him off like that, especially when it’s obviously he’s about to launch into a big speech.
That’s another thing people have asked me a lot over the years: if my relationship with Alistair is different from the one I have with Gabriel, because Alistair is adopted.
The answer to thatasininequestion is a quick and easy “no.” Well, quick and easy aside from the time I got suspended in the seventh grade for kicking Chrissy Klein in the shin for saying Alistair wasn’t my “real brother”.
I mean, my parents adopted him two years before I was even born. He’s literally always been my brother.
He watches me not touching my lunch—which I only ordered to avoid a lecture—as he absent-mindedly chews on a dumpling.
“I’ve been looking into the contract situation.”
He means the blood marker.
“Oh?”
The black look on his face tells me all I need to know about where this conversation is going.
“I made my choice, Alistair,” I say quietly, sipping my smoothie.
“We didn’t exactly have a course on mafia blood markers at school,” he grunts. “But I’ve reached out to a few of the more…colorfultypes I might know who know more about the politics and traditions of the mafia world.”
“And?”
Alistair just grunts again as he deftly plucks up another dumpling with his chopsticks and pops it into his mouth.
