Page 87 of Tainted Blood

No wonder he looks so exhausted.

“Is there anything you can do?”

“Grayson’s acting like a fucking diplomat, advising we set up a meet with Artem Lisko, the Don of Odessa here in New York. He wants to try and turn the tide in our favor before we declare an all-out turf war.”

“Santi…”

I’m scared suddenly, even though I learned a long time ago that it’s a redundant emotion to feel for men like him and my father. They live for the kill. They live for the danger. It’s like trying to love a speeding bullet that’s always pointed at someone, all the while praying that the one meant for him goes astray.

He releases my hand to drain the last of his coffee. “Fuck it, what does it matter... I’m dead tomorrow anyway, remember?” He shoots me another look over the rim of his white cup.

“What the hell did you buy Sam?” I say, temporarily distracted from my fears.

His lips start curving again. “A consultation with one of the best surgeons in the US.”

I frown. “What for? His scars?”

“No, a vasectomy.”

“A vasectomy?” I repeat, struggling to keep a straight face. “You’re right. You really are a dead man walking.”

“Will you come to my funeral?” he says idly, leaning forward, pressing his elbows into the table, bringing his face in so close to mine it’s a fight not to lean in and press my lips against his.

“So long as I can wear red.”

“It’s our fucking color. I’d be pissed if you wore anything else.”

I watch his gaze flicker to my mouth.

“You know, this is the first date we’ve ever had.”

“And I didn’t have to force you into it, either…” He leans back, breaking the spell.

Leaving me wanting more.

An easy calm blankets us as he reaches for his wallet and tosses a fifty on to the table.

“That’s a good tip,” I observe.

“Turns out, it was a great coffee.”

Now, it’s my turn to smile. “Are you flirting with me?” I say coyly, as he slides his wallet back into the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Nope. That’s against the rules.”

“When has that ever stopped you?”

He stands up, motioning for me to do the same. “Time to go. I have twenty minutes to get you across town, otherwise your Irish mountain of a bodyguard is going to accuse me of reneging on the deal and kick me all the way to Dublin.”

* * *

We reach my apartment with a minute to spare, thanks to Santi driving like a maniac as usual, weaving in and out of traffic jams like he owns this city instead of the one across the Hudson.

He goes to open up the driver’s door, when I grab his arm to stop him.

“Wait. I need to ask you something.”

“Oh?”

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