"Now, I have business to attend to, business that doesn’t include yours, so if you’d kindly fuc—"
"Sir? I have a note for you."
The server’s abrupt appearance had neither of us jerking in response. That he’d been aware of her presence as much as I was spoke of a man who lived up to his reputation.
Rumor had it that O’Donnelly Jr’s signature move was to cut out his pound of flesh then rub salt in the wound... then and there, I could see it happening.
His gaze snapped to the woman who stood there, frozen in place, as he snatched the note out of her fingers. "You can go," he said dismissively, but his tone was kinder than I’d have expected.
The woman bit her lip but made a hasty and grateful retreat after she laid out a second glass for him, her fear so strong that she didn’t even think to ask me if I wanted to order something.
As O’Donnelly read the note, the paper was thin enough that I could see there were three lines of text. It might as well have been an essay for how long it took him to process what he was reading.
The man wasn’t an idiot. Idiots didn’t use words like ‘hyperbolic’ in everyday sentences. Dyslexia, then?
I scanned my memory for any reference to that in my personal encyclopedia into every mob faction in NYC but came up blank.
"Problem?" I queried, as if I had a right to know.
"No."
He dropped the note on the table then poured himself another measure, as well as some whiskey into the empty glass. I half-expected him to give it to me, but he didn’t. He just pursed his lips with irritation. Not at me, however. Just at whatever it was he’d read.
"Glad to hear it."
"I’m sure." His gaze scanned the restaurant, but when he came up blank, he cast me another look. "Are you still here?"
"I want your family’s endorsement."
He scoffed. "What for? President?"
I didn’t laugh. "What’s left of the Famiglia and isn’t either taking up room in a morgue somewhere in the city, polluting the Hudson, or wearing orange jumpsuits, is in the process of being brought under my control. However, it will take peace to look like a leader."
"Peace? There’s no fucking peace in this city."
"There can be. The Italians are at war with you and the Russians. If we can draw a ceasefire, work together, we can own Manhattan once again."
"And how would you have us work together, Valentini?"
"A treaty." I shrugged.
"A treaty? What are you? The League of Nations? Is this 1918 and I just didn’t fucking realize it?"
I arched a brow at that. Definitely dyslexic—the League of Nations were the precursors to the UN. The man knew history but took eons to read a three-lined message?
"Why not?" I reasoned, tone placid. "They work from time to time."
"What would we gain?"
"Territorial lines appropriately demarcated, an agreement not to undercut each other, harsh rules to keep our mutual foot soldiers in line among other such stipulations. Agreements to trade fairly among ourselves.
"We can each own our kingdom, can each make it work for us and get rich while we do it. We’d hash out the accord together." When he didn’t reply, I carefully asked, "I’m assuming that the sudden influx of Bratva princesses for sisters-in-law means you have an in with the Russians?
"When the country is at war, we make money. When we’re at war, the only people who profit are the District Attorneys and the undertakers."
"There’s no denying that," he confirmed bitterly, his jaw wiggling to the side as he studied me. "How did you get in here?" he demanded again.
"By fair means," I assured him, then, aware he wasn’t going to let this drop, I continued, "Your brother has a standing reservation at this restaurant. Every evening at eight PM. When that reservation was changed to six, I knew an O’Donnelly was coming."
"So, you expected to meet with Conor?"
I nodded.
"You’ve got someone on the staff on your payroll?"
I laid out my hands in a placatory manner. "I do, but as of this evening, they no longer work here."
"Your transparency is... unusual."
"I wish to build allegiances, O’Donnelly, not allow more enemies to fester. When you check up on me, you’ll find I don’t speak falsehoods with allies."
He made a scoffing sound. "I actually believe you. Not sure if that makes you the fool or me."
"You’re not a fool," I assured him. "If you know my name, you know my reputation."
"I’ve learned of it recently."
I bowed my head, well aware that there was an insult in there, but it spoke of how high up the ranks O’Donnelly was.
To him, I was a mosquito, a pesky gnat that was biting him in his sleep. Not for long, though. Not for fucking long.
"I could easily make an enemy out of you, but I’d prefer to make a friend."
O’Donnelly’s glance lingered on me a second before something caught his attention. I let my focus drift over to the same spot and found him staring at Savannah Daniels. Her face was plastered all over the TV right now thanks to the articles she was writing on the New World Sparrows.
Disinterested, I turned to the woman with her.
Porca Madonna—who the fuck was she?
I’d seen the backs of both women as they headed over to the bathroom, had noticed that one wore a sharp suit that was more befitting a man while the other wore a dress so short it left little to the imagination.
Having disregarded her as a whore, a buttana, I regretted that now.
She was beautiful. Bedda.
Cristo, she wasn’t just beautiful, she moved like fucking poetry and had the grace of royalty.
In a silvery dress made of metal plates that were sewn together, almost like chain mail of old, nothing about her was cold. It clung to every curve, revealing everything, hiding nothing, but for all that she had the body of a buttana, her face belonged to an angel.
She had hair like the finest espresso, rich and glossy with streaks of fire in it that the lights in the restaurant made gleam. Her eyes were almond-shaped, the irises as dark as her hair. Her nose was dainty, but the tip was slightly blunt before it led to the enhanced pout of her lips.
Red, the color of dried blood, that pouty curve had me gritting my teeth and wanting to trace the delicate line of her jaw.
With her hair tossed over one half of her face, she hid from me.
Hid.
I couldn’t allow that.
I wouldn’t allow that.
Dick hard, I stared at her, willing her to look at me. Willing that angel to see this humble soul.
Angels weren’t made to be pawed; they were meant to be cherished.
Worshipped.
Even heathens like me knew that, but this angel walked toward me, and with each step, I felt the heat between us stir.
Her gaze never faltered, neither did mine, and lightning sparked into being, ricocheting between us as she moved nearer to me.
"Savannah, Jennifer, please, meet Luciu Valentini," O’Donnelly murmured when they finally reached the table.
I stared at her, seeing the dazed heat in her eyes, knowing she was burning up for me as much as I was for her. "It’s a pleasure to meet you, ladies."