Page 31 of Ruthless Sinner

The two of them looked very similar—same hair, same eyes, same height—but the way they held themselves was as different as night and day. Vincent looked like he had just come from a board meeting and was none too pleased to be interrupted, while Marco looked like he was about to start a fight in a dive bar.

Both men stared at me as I entered. I cleared my throat. How the hell were you supposed to behave when interrupting an argument between your sort-of boyfriend and his brother, who you’d also never met before?

“Hi.” I stuck out my hand. “I’m Kennedy, I’m Marco’s girlfriend. You must be Vincent.”

I didn’t want to simper, since I was sure Vincent would take that for fakeness, and if Marco had told me anything about him, he would know that those things hadn’t been pleasant. So I kept my tone polite but professional and my face soft but unsmiling.

Vincent shook my hand. He had a firm handshake, and I could feel the power in his fingers. He could probably kill me barehanded.

“His girlfriend.” Vincent looked over at Marco. “Have you toldhimthat?”

“Don’t be a dick,” Marco snapped. “We’ve been together a month and she’s my plus one to your own damn wedding.”

“You can’t hold it against me if I’m a little skeptical.” Vincent turned to look at me once more. His gaze was assessing and sharp. “An actual girlfriend? For our Marco? Father will be pleased. What do you do?”

“I work in construction,” I said, the lie sliding easily off my tongue. Odd how it was easier to lie for Marco’s sake rather than to deceive him. “Family business. But I’m sort of between jobs at the moment. I was taking care of my mother during her illness and she recently passed.”

“My condolences for your loss,” Vincent said, his tone perfectly gracious.

Marco scowled at him. “What.”

“Oh it’s nothing,” Vincent said. “It’s just I think I recall seeing a stripper that looks very much like your Kennedy here, the last time I was at Cozy Bunny.”

“You mean when your future wife nearly got herself murdered?” Marco snapped back.

Vincent’s eyes blazed. “Careful how you talk about my fiancée.”

“Then you be careful how you talk aboutmygirl.”

“Touché,” I pointed out.

Vincent looked over at me and I shrugged. “What, only the man’s allowed to stand up for his partner now?”

That seemed to throw him. Vincent blinked. Marco grinned proudly.

“A month, you said?” Vincent asked his brother. “Well. That’s good. Must be an extraordinary woman to get you to settle down for even that long.”

“Great, maybe it also shows you I’m settled enough to hear what you’re planning.”

Oh, so this was what the argument was about.

“It’s a need-to-know basis,” Vincent said. “And you don’t need to know.”

“I don’t need to know?” Marco repeated incredulously. “I was stabbed and nearly jumped by two assassins just to deliver a package to a Chinese restaurant! And a cheap purse shop! And a tailor’s!”

Wait.

My mind raced, thinking back to other open operations I knew going on at the bureau. Why hadn’t the restaurant tipped me off before? The Chinese mafia were the biggest movers of counterfeit luxury items in the city, specifically fashion items like purses, watches, and sunglasses. Marco had guessed that the men who’d tried to jump him were Russian, and the Russians were the main players in the mob world nowadays, with the Italians like the Russo family running a close second.

The packages were all small, being delivered in the early hours, and what you would call a ‘single shipment’—not a big collection of packages or goods, just one offs.

Hmm.

I folded my arms. “You’re trying some kind of deal with the Chinese,” I said.

Vincent whipped around to stare at me. “And how would you know something like that?”

I shrugged. “All right, you got me, I’m a stripper at Cozy Bunny. But I wasn’t lying about my mother. Point is, we hear a lot at that club, all you bigwigs talking to each other like we’re not even there. And even more than that, we often benefit from the Chinese. I can’t tell you how many of my coworkers are given knockoffs by their boyfriends who try to pass it off as no, really honey, it’s a genuine Louis Vuitton! I promise!” I imitated the heavy Brooklyn accent of a lot of the mobsters, then rolled my eyes.

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