Page 91 of Attraction (Mobsters + Billionaires 3)
As we walk in, he leans against me and mutters out of the side of his mouth, “Now I feel like a real mobster.”
I laugh, and he wrinkles his nose, making me laugh harder. As we head to the wine bar, he stops me in his tracks.
“Hey.Youdidn’t get a pat down.”
I adjust my mask and wink.
“Wait. Did you bring a gun?”
“Ford, darling? Remember what I said about asking questions if you don’t want to know the answer?”
He tries to hide his shiver and nods. “You have a point.”
The line at the wine station moves quickly, and we wade into the party, drinks in hand. We used to house this event in an old, repurposed warehouse in the garment district, but we’ve grown since then. Doesn’t hurt that I happen to own the opulent event space.
Unlike the rubber chicken dinners Ford and I have been choking down, I’ve been looking forward to tonight. Ford doesn’t know this, of course, but Cesar has catered the Rogues’ Masquerade since its inception. He’s related to one of Manhattan’s powerful Puerto Rican families, and his food is their contribution.
Tonight he’s outdone himself, putting on a delicious, vibrant display of finger foods, shish kebobs, and handcrafted cocktails.
Madonna.
In addition to the beautiful food, we’ve got a proper big band playing the standards. When they spin up an old-school bossa nova, Ford widens his eyes, asking without asking.
We set our drinks down and head to the floor. Normally, I would not leave my drink unattended in a room full of rivals. I do it as a show of respect and trust.
Also, because nobody has the balls to fuck with me.
The dance between us is an easy, unchoreographed thing. He follows my lead, and I hold him close. The Mafia isn’t exactly flush with queer allies, but I’m surrounded by my fellow masked rogues and their loved ones, and we aren’t the only same-sex couple on the dance floor.
Sure, we’re all some flavor of felon, but…I think a change, long overdue, is coming. There is more power in truce than in war. The global economy changes everything for all of us. We can grow or die.
I don’t know where we’ll all end up, but the next few years will be awfully interesting.
Anthony and Mads join us on the dance floor, each handsome in their matching black-and-white attire with lacy masks. We pause for quick busses on each other’s cheeks, and Mads leans in conspiratorially.
“I bought a black puffer jacket for the occasion.”
Ford and I crack up while Anthony pulls his guy to his side in a tight embrace. Life is good.
I have to go up and give a speech in a few minutes, and maybe I can weave something in about what I see tonight.
Or not.
I note with some chagrin that Dominick Byrne, the Byrne brothers’ consigliere, has walked in. Ryder’s search on him didn’t pull up anything particularly interesting, save for the fact that he’s Teflon-coated when it comes to catching charges.
Slippery, indeed.
A con artist if ever I saw one. I don’t trust him, and I envy the complete willingness of my Mafia predecessors to put a bullet in someone’s head in broad daylight, especially if they’ve already been sniffing around for trouble. But we are at a charity function directly aimed at improving community ties and preventing open bloodshed.
Mary hands him a mask since he didn’t bring his own.
Invited or not, I’m trying to view their sending an emissary as a good sign. That theory is immediately tested when Fallon O’Shea steps out from behind Byrne’s shadow, wearing an ugly maroon suit.
These motherfuckers right here.
Do not pull your gun.
Do not pull your gun.
