Page 30 of Possessive Mafia Vows

Am I ever!

It feels good to discuss art with someone who knows what he wants. I don’t know Bash or Cash that well, but it’s like talking to Kyle without the sexual chemistry bouncing around between us.

When we’ve agreed on four pieces, to begin with, and my brain is still trying to process the zeroes this will add to my practically empty bank account, he throws in: “Have you seen Kyle since he got back?”

My heart jumps on the bandwagon, prodding my ribs like I might’ve missed the name. “Yes.” What does he know? Has Kyle told his brothers about us? “Why?”

Jeez, that’s one way to draw attention to the heat in my face.

“No reason.” Bash stands up. “He’s been quiet.”

“Maybe he’s been busy.”Digging for information on my cosmetic surgeon.

“Maybe.” His eyes flicker back to his watch.

“Has he said anything to you about…” I leave the sentence hanging.

What am I doing?Bash is a member of the same mafia family as Kyle. It’s bad enough having one brother on Nick’s case without alerting the rest of the family to his existence as well.

“About?” His expression is unreadable.

“Did Kyle ask you to come here and check up on me?”

“Nope. Kyle stopped telling me what to do a long while ago when he realized that I would automatically do the opposite.”

I think about it. “So, he told you to stay away?”

Bash laughs, the kind of laughter that would be infectious in a crowded room, easy and charming and loud. “I’m not saying a word.”

I walk with him through the gallery and open the door.

Bash hesitates on the threshold and turns to face me. His expression is so like Kyle’s when he’s being serious, that it takes my breath away momentarily.

“Kyle’s one of the good guys,” he says. “Would it be such a bad thing if he had people looking out for you?” Before I can answer, he shrugs and walks away.

A black car is waiting for him, the engine idling, and hazard lights on. The Murrays must have a fleet of expensive black cars complete with chauffeurs at their beck and call. Fancy a McDonald’s? No sweat. Send the chauffeur to pick it up.

But I bet they’ve never even tried McDonald’s classic Big Mac Meal.

I watch the car drive off. I’m about to go back inside and close the door, when a man dressed all in black standing outside a store on the opposite side of the road, turns his face away from me and studies the window. Neither of us moves.

Was he watching me?

I linger outside, but it’s cold, and my teeth are chattering, so I go back inside and close the door as gently as I can, holding mybreath until I hear the faint click. Within moments, the guy turns around, checks out the gallery, and then walks away.

Anger bursts inside my chest.

What the actual fuck does Kyle think he’s doing?

Back in the office, I type a message—it takes three attempts to get it right because my fingers are trembling—and send it to Kyle.

Get your man away from my gallery or I’ll call the police.

I refill my coffee cup. It’s too late to get my paints out before my afternoon appointment, and I’m not sure that I’d produce the kind of piece I could sell right now anyway.

A message comes back before my first mouthful of coffee has gone down.

Sienna? What’s happened? Can I call you?

---