Page 20 of Extradition (Mobsters + Billionaires 1)
I look out the window at the astonishing New York skyline. As a kid, it was always my favorite thing to do. Get to the top of a tall building and look at all the possibilities. It occurs to me that there are now fewer possibilities because I couldn’t leave well enough alone.
* * *
The landingon the rooftop of my building is soft as butter, a complete opposite of the takeoff. I may figure out how much this pilot makes annually and gift that as a bonus. Pretty sure he saved my life.
One look out the window tells me that being shot at from a warehouse on the docks has set off a massive security protocol. Waiting for me is my head of security and six of his guys. No one looks particularly pleased.
Edgerton opens the helicopter door, and before my foot hits the ground, I’m surrounded. I barely catch a glimpse of sunlight as we pass through the stairwell door.
The door slams shut behind me and is immediately opened again. The security team turns, hands on their sidearms. So not just linebacker-guard types. Armed guards.
Portelli holds up his hands. “Am I not supposed to be here?”
I push past one of the guards—or attempt to. I give up after a few seconds. “Edgerton, he’s with us.”
Edgerton nods, and the security detail shuffles him into the middle of the scrum as the sound of the helicopter taking off fills the stairwell.
We go down one flight of stairs and, using the palm reader, Edgerton lets us into my foyer. Awaiting us is my personal physician, Dr. Jensen.
And my father, whose wordless judgment chokes the very oxygen from the air we’re breathing.
Edgerton breaks the weighted silence. “We have secured Mr. Wolfe and Mr. Portelli. Mr. Wolfe did sustain an injury to his chin. It appears to be mild…”
The doctor walks up to us, interrupting Edgerton’s briefing of the obvious. “Let me take a look.” Dr. Jenson has been my doctor since I was very young, and she’s more or less retired, save for my annual physicals and the occasional illness. She pulls the bandanna away and nods agreeably. “It’s good that you covered it up, but let’s wash this out and see what we can do with Steri-Strips. I don’t believe you’ll need stitches.”
I nod and let her lead me to the little half-bath near my entryway. Using hand soap and hot water, she has me squared away in no time. When I walk back out into the foyer, there’s a distinct energy shift.
Portelli is surrounded by guards, and my father is looking at him like a specimen in the zoo.
His coveralls are still half undone, his university tank top is spackled to his chest, and his beard is past due for a grooming. Perhaps it’s the contrast of his roughness against the surrounding refinement, but…fuck, he’s hot.
Focus, Rand.
My father walks up to me, examines the small bandage on my chin, sniffs, then turns to Dr. Jensen, dismissing her from my care as though I were a small child. It’s a classic Randolf Wolfe Sr. move—establish dominance in every interaction, no matter how microscopic.
Addressing me, he gestures at Portelli as though he’s a piece of trash that somehow found its way into the middle of my beautifully adorned foyer. “Explain.”
Drawing myself to my full height, I give a brief rundown of the day’s events.
My father shakes his head, his voice cool. “You took a helicopter to Brooklyn, where you angered the Mafia, forcing your pilot to do a cold takeoff while being shot at?”
I glance at Joe, whose hands are in the pockets of his coveralls, unbothered. I spy a faint smirk at the corner of his mouth. My father sees it too.
He narrows his eyes, an indication of his displeasure and a subtle order to fall in line. I’ve seen this one look work across the dinner table and in boardrooms all over the world. Joe responds with a wink, letting his whisper of a smile bloom into a sharp grin.
I shiver, pushing down an unwanted rush of desire.
Turning back to my father, I seek to answer the question he never got around to. “You’re missing some nuance, but yes, you’ve got the rough sketch of it.”
“I still don’t understand why Mr. Portelli is here.”
My eyes flick back to Joe, and he captures my gaze. Alpha wolf, he mouths, pointing at my father.
My shoulders drop, as does any of my argument. I know that, save for him being quietly related to one of the most vicious mob families in the history of New York, getting Joe back was a smart move.
Probably.
