Page 10 of Steal My Heart
“Your seat’s ready and waiting. Calvani Seafood’s processing plant in Shreveport needs a night manager,” I whisper-hiss back. It’s not that I particularly want Fabien in charge of our drug-running operation, but odds are, he’ll get killed by a Cajun with a shotgun while trolling the bayou. Happened to our last “night manager.”
He waves his hand like he’s in charge, and it fucking pisses me off. “Fire whoever needs to be fired. I’m coming back to New Orleans.”
“You’re not in a position to make demands, not with ten years missing from your CV,” I tell him dismissively.
He falls back in his chair. “Mr. Ivy League, always dropping the fancy terms. Oh, that’s right, though. You don’t have a degree. Too busy playing boss.”
“That’s enough,” I say in a bored tone, even though I want to hop over the table and pound Fabien’s head into it.
“If Mama were alive, she’d be disgusted with the way you’re acting,” he grits through his teeth. “Like keeping Al from me?—”
“This conversation is over.” I push back from the table and rise. “If you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to. Always nice to catch up with you, big brother.”
“And I’ll be catching up with you, little brother, in,” he glances at the clock on the wall, “44,640 minutes.”
“I plan on making each of those minutes asbosscount,” I promise him.
I’m escorted out, where Maks and a convoy of armored vehicles greet me.
Climbing into the SUV we switched out for the shot-up town car, I tell Maks, “Get the phone records, visitor’s logs, and commissary activity for Fabien over the past six months. I want you combing through it. If Fabien’s behind the attempted hit, he has to be working with someone on the outside.”
Maks eyes me in the rearview. “Boss, have you thought about suiciding him and being done with it?”
I release an annoyed sound from the back of my throat. “I’ve more than thought about it. The problem is, I swore to my mama I wouldn’t kill Fabien unless he gave me a reason. Bring me that reason.”
Chapter Three
Remi
“$49,800. $49,900. $50,000.” I stack the hundreds in neat piles on my twin bed while my cat watches me from atop the laminate kitchen counter. No point telling her to get down; she doesn’t listen. “Nola, have my prayers been answered, or have I stepped into a huge pile of shit?” Because nobody on the right side of the law carries 50g in their back pocket.
Grabbing Mr. Calvani’s watch, I examine the engraving on the underside.La famiglia prima di tutto.
A quick translation search tells me the language is Italian, the meaning, ‘Family above all else.’ I turn the heavy, antique-looking watch over in my hand. “Great. I stole a freaking family heirloom.”
My soiled gown is crumpled in a trash bag in the corner of my studio apartment. So many rules were broken last night, I deserved stepping in a puddle of piss.
Rule one: never hang around after a successful grab. I should’ve bounced after I swiped the ring and envelope. But inmy defense, how the hell was I supposed to know Mr. Prenup was carrying 50 large ones?
I continue mentally laying out the case against myself. Rule two: never target too important a mark. And another quick search informs me Mr. Angelo Calvani isn’t just important to this city, he’s practically a saint. Not only was Mr. Calvani the chair of last night’s charity gala, but a freaking wing of the hospital is named after him.
I continue scrolling, finding an older picture of him at a ribbon cutting for his restaurant,The Boardroom. “It’s worse than I thought.” I groan. “He’s a saintandhe’s hot as sin.” I knew as much last night, even with him wearing the mask. But without it, I get to take in all his features. Strong nose that shouldn’t aesthetically work, but somehow does. A few lines around those baby blues that only add to his sex appeal. There’s no facial hair in this photo, and I decide the short beard suits him better.
My cyber stalking leads me to an article in the local society paper.
Businessman and philanthropist Angelo Calvani named Mr. New Orleans.
“Freaking Mr. New Orleans!” I slap my hand against my forehead. “Could I have picked a worse mark?”
Nolameows.
“That was a rhetorical question.” I scan the article about the city’s golden boy, who left a fancy Ivy League college to return home and continue his fourth generation Italian American family’s legacy here in the city.
And surprise, surprise, the man’s not smiling in any of his photos.
My initial impression was correct: Mr. Calvani is intense.
Which leads me to rule three, the cardinal rule of pickpocketing: never get involved with a mark. I’d like topretend I wasn’t about to accept Mr. Calvani’s offer, but that’s bullshit. I was seconds away from letting that man fuck me six ways from Sunday. In the bathroom. In the broom closet. Hell, I might have even let him fuck me on the dance floor, especially if he kept kissing me like that…
