Page 30 of Brutal Heir
“Umhmm.” She reaches for her mug of cappuccino and buries her nose in it.
“What made you come to Manhattan?”
I swear the woman takes the longest sip known to man. An endless minute later, she finally lifts her gaze to mine. “I just wanted a change of scenery.”
“I don’t blame you since you grew up in a barn.”
She grinds her teeth but that easy smile returns all the same. “Exactly.”
“What about your family? Everyone still in Ireland?”
“Aye.”
Usually, the woman can’t shut her mouth but whenever her past comes up, she becomes alocked vault, steel-sealed and dead silent.
“Where in Ireland did you say?”
“Belfast,” she all but snarls.
“Ah, Northern Ireland then. That explains a lot.” Figures the firecracker would come from the tension-fraught region.
As I ponder her secretive past, it occurs to me that she must have studied nursing in Ireland since she’s only been here for a year. I wouldn’t imagine a small town to have had a ton of burn cases, and yet, she said she’s had plenty of experience. Coming from Belfast, it’s a bit more believable. Still, something about the story doesn’t track…
I’m about to ask more when she leaps up from the table, practically knocking down her chair in the process. “If you don’t need anything else from me, I’m going to find Mrs. Jenkins tomake sure she’s all set with your dinner menu. She’ll stay with you while I’m gone.”
“I’m more than capable of being by myself for a few hours.” I’m not sure why I haven’t mentioned Serena’s party. No. That’s not true. It’s because I’m fully aware she’ll insist on coming with me, and the idea of going to that party filled with family and business acquaintances with my nurse is out of the question.
I would rather not go at all and deal with Serena’s wrath.
“Of course you are, but I don’t trust that you won’t indulge in crappy take-out instead of the nutritious, protein-packed meal I had Mrs. Jenkins prepare.”
My eyes roll so hard I hope only the whites show.
She waggles a finger at me, clucking her tongue. “Keep that up and they’ll freeze that way.”
“You’re an eejit,” I shoot back, attempting my best impression of that sexy Irish lilt.
This draws out a smile, her intense irises sparkling like the finest jewels before she turns for the hallway. “Later, McFecker,” she calls out over her shoulder.
And I can’t help my gaze from trailing after those tight little scrubs or the way my eyes linger long after she’s disappeared.
Hours later, the melody of an old Frank Sinatra number fills the foyer of Serena’s apartment, the tune in complete odds with the music my cousin would typically pump through the speakers. It must have been my Uncle Dante’s pick, a nod to the classics for his daughter’s engagement party. The whole thing was set up to prove to the other powerful crime syndicates that the joiningof the Ferraras and Valentinos was a calculated move, not a kidnapping gone wrong.
Only Serena would fall for the man keeping her hostage.
The crooning vocals curl around crystal chandeliers and sleek marble floors, softening the sharp edges of an evening that is anything but romantic.
The air is heavy with the scent of expensive perfume and aged scotch, a heady mix that clings to tuxedos and sequined dresses. I’m the only asshole here in sweatpants, thanks to my compression garments. Waiters glide between guests like shadows, balancing silver trays piled with oysters and caviar blinis. But even beneath the glitz and gold, there’s a tension here. A tightness in the smiles. A sharpness in the glances that linger too long.
This isn’t just a party, it’s a performance. A calculated spectacle meant to tell the world:the Ferraras, Valentinos and Rossis are united now. Touch us at your own peril.
Alessia wheels me into the living room, and I plaster on a practiced smile, readying myself to deal with the oncoming stares. Every move, every inhale is a performance of my own. I keep my spine straight, my expression bored. The stares hit me before we’re even halfway across the floor. Some are subtle, a flicker of pity, a poorly concealed wince. Others are less graceful. One guy straight-up gawks like I’m a damned ghost. A few raise their flutes toward me in silent toasts, like surviving a car bomb is something to celebrate.
I already want to leave.
I can make out my parentsand both Valentino siblings huddled in an intense conversation with one of the other major players in Manhattan. The damned Irish mob has made its way to our shores forcing the Italians to forge new alliances. Likely the cause of their hushed conversation. It’s not a completely newdevelopment of course, but they seem to be proliferating too quickly, like fucking rats.
Then there are the usual players, the Red Dragons, Aunt Jia’s Four Seas, the Russians, too many to name, and some young new player, La Spada Nera, or some bullshit.
