by Meghan March
“What’s her deal?” I ask Letty as she sets a vodka martini on the tray of drinks she and I are serving to a rapper and a record exec in the corner.
“Whose deal?” Letty looks around, as if there’s another woman here other than the two of us.
“Tanya’s.”
Before she can answer me, Grice appears at my side.
“Need one of you to take the door for a minute. Boss is gone, Matteo’s busy, and Tanya’s not back yet. Shouldn’t be anyone coming in, though. I gotta run down to meet a delivery.”
“Tanya will kill us all if I let Drew serve tables by herself.” Letty glances from Grice to me. “You comfortable handling the door?”
Like any new employee, I give her an energetic nod. “Sure. Of course. Whatever you need.”
“Thanks, Ms. Carson.”
I follow Grice to the entrance, and he points to the corner where he usually stands.
“Hang out here. I’ll be back in five. Members need a keycard to get up to this floor without an escort, but hopefully no one shows while I’m gone.”
“I can handle it, Grice. Do what you need to do.”
The big man exits the club, and I stand sentry, wishing he’d left me guarding a room I could scour for papers that might bring me one step closer to answers. Unfortunately, the foyer, with its high ceiling, heavy brass light fixtures, grandfather clock, and carefully tended fiddle-leaf fig tree offer none. Why I know it’s a fiddle-leaf fig can be attributed to my stepmother, who is almost as particular about her indoor plants as she is about her cosmetic surgeries. She currently looks forty-five, but if she’s not careful, she’ll look like a newly face-lifted Joan Rivers in a few years.
The grandfather clock ticks over three minutes before the door opens. I smile, expecting to see Grice returning more quickly than expected, but it’s not. Instead, it’s a man with a confident stride.
“Nice to see they’ve upgraded the help around here to a pretty girl instead of that goon who usually watches the door. How’s it going, honey?”
Something about this guy immediately rubs me the wrong way, and his leer makes me feel like I need to shower.
“Grice will be back in a few minutes. I’m helping him out.”
The man steps toward me and attempts to drop his voice lower, but the pitch is still too high for his purpose. “How about I let you help me out instead? You’re a little old for my taste, but I’d still give you a good ride.”
All of my creeper alerts are going crazy, but instead of saying Ew, gross. Never fucking ever, I smile and reply politely. “I’m sorry, sir. That’s against club policy.”
I stretch out a hand to wave him toward the club, but Tanya enters the main door.
The man spins around to look at Tanya, and her face goes white.
“What are you doing here?” she asks him quickly before her gaze darts to me. “And where the hell is Grice?”
“He’s meeting a delivery,” I say, wondering what I’m missing here. “He left me in charge of the door for five minutes.”
“Fucking hell.”
The man’s smooth, affable smile disappears. “Where’s my favorite little bitch? You know you can’t keep her from me.”
“None of your goddamned business,” Tanya snaps. “And I sure as hell can.”
What the hell is going on here? My attention jumps between them as Tanya’s expression twists with murderous rage.
He gives her a smug smile. “I’m gonna find her. You can’t babysit her all the time. She’s an adult, and she makes her own decisions.”
Tanya’s fingers curl into claws. “You come near her again, and I’ll fucking kill you myself.”
The man charges at her, moving faster than I would have thought possible. In a second, he has Tanya pressed up against the wall, his hands on her shoulders, ready to shake her.
“Big words for a bitch with no backup—”
The interior door flies open.
“Back the fuck away from her before I rip your hands off and give them to the hookers down the street so they can jerk off their johns.” Cannon’s quiet and deadly voice issues the threat from just behind me.
The man, who clearly values his hands more than getting information out of Tanya, releases her and backs away. “You think you’re hot shit, Freeman? I don’t give a fuck who your father is. My boss will have my back if you touch me. You want to start a war? Bring it.”
“You’re the one about to fuck up months of negotiations, and there’s no way anyone is going to blame me for taking you out. I’m only going to say this one more time, Donny. Get the fuck out of this club and never come back, including with your boss.” Cannon stalks toward him, stopping only when the tips of his Italian shoes are inches from Donny’s. “Because the next time you set foot on my property, you leave in a body bag. Do you understand me?”
Donny’s face turns ashen and beads of sweat glisten on his temples as he backs up toward the door. As soon as his fingers wrap around the door handle, his lip curls. “You’re going to regret this.”
“No. I won’t. Just like I won’t regret sending you six feet under. Now give me the keycard you stole to get up here and move your ass. I don’t want to breathe the same air as you.”
Donny yanks a plastic card from his pocket before flinging it at Cannon with bared teeth. Then he slips out the door, and a heavy shroud of silence settles over all three of us. No one speaks for a few beats, at least, not until Tanya rushes to Cannon and throws herself into his arms.
“Thank you. Thank you so much. I know that wasn’t how things are supposed to go. I didn’t think he’d have the balls to try to get in here without . . .” Tanya trails off as Cannon’s arms wrap around her, and I’m still trying to figure out exactly what I just witnessed.
Which rival mob family does that guy work for? Could this somehow help my case?
Tanya shudders against Cannon, and my mind splits off down another avenue, even as I’m thinking about my investigation.
They look pretty damn cozy together.
He tucks her hair behind her ears and drops his voice to a low murmur. “It’s okay, sweetheart. We’ll deal with this. I promised you that once, and I meant it.”
Sweetheart. He called her sweetheart. That’s enough to prove the suspicion I had about them being together, which should be gratifying. Instead, a green-eyed, clawing monster rears her ugly head from the pettiest part of my soul.
Under normal circumstances, I’d laugh it off as no big deal, but I’m frozen in the entryway, hating him and hating myself at the same time.
I can’t be jealous. If I’m jealous . . . that means I . . . I don’t even want to put it into words, but my brain can’t be stopped.
I want him.
A chill sweeps over me, unleashing goose bumps that spread across every inch of my exposed skin. I can’t want him. I—
“I hate him.” Tanya’s rough whisper is barely loud enough for me to hear, but I take a wobbly step back because she steals the words right out of my brain.
I’m supposed to hate Cannon Freeman.
“Shh. I know. We all hate that bastard.”
Tanya snuffles and looks up at Cannon from beneath her lashes in a move I’ve seen Randi use. A move deliberately intended to entice. “Thank you. I appreciate you coming to my rescue.”
Part of me wants to shrink away because now I’m intruding on a too-intimate scene, but I can’t slip out of the foyer without attracting their attention.
Thankfully, the entrance door swings open again. Cannon quickly releases Tanya and steps away from her, leaving the woman staring at him with longing.
“What’d I miss?” Grice’s gaze scans the room, and his free hand goes for his gun while he balances a box on his other.
“Donny Linetti,” Cannon says, infusing the man’s name with disgust.
“Fuck.” Grice looks to me. “I’m sorry, Ms. Carson. Didn’t think he’d have the balls to try something like that.”
“It’s—” I st
art to speak, but Cannon cuts me off.
“He could’ve been watching the building. I’ll be in my office, doing a full security review. Perfect fucking timing before tonight.”
Cannon sweeps around me, jamming one hand in his pocket as he reaches for the interior door with the other. Without another word to any of us, he disappears inside the Upper Ten.
“What does he mean, perfect timing before tonight?”
Tanya’s blue gaze ices over. “Don’t ask questions above your pay grade.” She glances down to check her watch. “You’re off in two hours. Make sure every glass is clean before you go. I don’t need you anymore today.”
Tanya disappears through the door as if she’s chasing after Cannon, but not without nearly knocking her shoulder into mine.
Fabulous. She hates me even more now. As soon as she’s gone, I’m left with a feeling of foreboding I can’t shake.
“Sorry for putting you in that situation, Ms. Carson. Never again,” Grice says.
“Don’t worry about it. How could you have known?” I give him a small smile and head back inside, prepared to wash every glass and make sure they’re spotless before I head home for the night.
And I add Donny Linetti, clearly a mob player, to my list of people to research.
9
Drew
As soon as my fingers close around the straps of my bag, I know I’m not alone in the break room. Carefully, like the hair on my neck isn’t standing on end, I turn around to see Cannon, the man I am definitely not jealous over, standing in the doorway.
How does he move so quietly? I’m not sure I want an answer to that question, because it probably has to do with things that would add to the prison sentence he’s going to get. Why wouldn’t I want to add to his prison sentence?
“I need you to stay and pull a double. I wouldn’t ask it of you normally, especially not on your second day, but I need you tonight. Late-shift waitress isn’t coming in. Tanya’s staying too.”
I remember what he said earlier about the security review being “perfect fucking timing before tonight,” which Tanya immediately said was above my pay grade.
This could be the break I need in my investigation.
“Absolutely, sir. Whatever you need.” I lower my bag back into the locker as he catalogs every facet of my appearance.
“What did I tell you about the sir bullshit?”
“Sorry, s—. Sorry, Cannon. Old habits.”
His assessing stare makes me feel like I’m under CIA scrutiny for a lie detector test. Unsettled, yet determined to beat the damn machine.
“You’re a drink runner for Tanya,” he says, his jaw set in a hard line. “She’ll take the orders and give them to Stefano. You bring them out to the tables. It’ll be good for you to see how busy we can get in the evenings. This’ll be your shift eventually.”
“Sounds great,” I say, targeting the enthusiasm behind my words specifically to hit the excited but somewhat nervous new employee level.
His gaze moves over my face and stops at my hairline. Shit. Is my wig slipping?
“Something’s not right.”
My stomach drops to the green-and-gold-striped carpet beneath my feet. No. This can’t be happening. Not before I learn anything helpful. Visions of my feet being cemented into five-gallon buckets before I’m tossed into the East River assail me as Cannon comes closer.
Stay cool. Act cool. Be cool. I repeat my mantra. No one can prove I’m lying if I never admit it. People underestimate the power of deception all the damn time.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say with a casual, yet politely confused tone, hoping to find out what he thinks is wrong.
“Your uniform.”
A rush of relief sweeps through me, but I still glance down at my tailored white shirt with bewilderment. “This is what Tanya told me to wear.”
“For day. For night you need a vest and tie. Hold on.”
He shoves a hand into his pocket, and the lights catch on a flash of silver keys that jangle as he opens the closet from which Tanya produced the shirts yesterday. Cannon yanks out hangers covered in a clear plastic dry-cleaning bag and offers them to me.
“These vests should fit you. Hell, probably better than they fit her.” He murmurs the last bit with a shake of his head.
“Who?”
He shoves the clothing toward me, and I rush to take it. My fingers slide against his, and a spark of heat passes between us.
Cannon’s brow furrows as his eyes lock on mine. “Doesn’t matter. Take a half-hour break if you want now. You’re going to be busy tonight.”
He backs toward the door, and I can’t help but wonder what the hell just happened in here . . . and whose clothes I’m going to be wearing for my next shift. A check in the mirror shows me that there wasn’t a damn thing wrong with my wig placement either.
So, why does he keep looking at me like that?
For the next several hours, I run drinks to what seems like every upper-class New Yorker. Famous men, notorious men, men who have been on the cover of Forbes and Time Magazine.
As I deliver thousand-dollar glasses of cognac and catch glimpses of the labels of some of the most expensive cigars from Matteo’s inventory, I play a game to keep my attention sharp—attempt to tally the net worth of the people present tonight. I stall out when I try to add the geeky guy whose portrait was in stipple format on the front page of the Wall Street Journal last week. Did they say he was worth six billion or sixteen billion after his IPO?
I lose track of time and start to droop. I’ve been here for almost twelve hours, and I haven’t eaten all day. I load my tray with another round of drinks for the table I’ve labeled Revenge of the Nerds, and my stomach growls with the intensity of a pride of lions. Of course, Cannon appears at my side to hear it.
“I should’ve told you to get some food in the kitchen earlier. Do that now. I need you focused and helping to clear out the tables before midnight.”
It might be my fatigue, or maybe the fact that I’m pretty sure I’m light-headed from lack of food, but I stare at him in confusion.
“Doesn’t the club close at two?”
The muscle in Cannon’s jaw tightens as he rebuttons his suit jacket and scans the club floor. Everything about him screams calm, collected, and completely in control. “Not tonight.”
I’m not stupid. There’s something big going down, and I’d bet a shred of my soul that it’s mob business, especially given his comments about Donny Linetti’s appearance earlier. Just the reminder that I might be one step closer to finding answers tonight sends a charge through my body like I’ve mainlined Red Bull.
“Whatever you need, Cannon. I’m here to help.”
He scans my appearance, seeming to approve of my uniform, which actually does fit well. Then his gaze narrows on my face, and I get the sense that once again, he’s trying to see inside my head, which would be catastrophic to my longevity.
“Important guests will be arriving at midnight. Don’t speak to any of them. Tanya will show them into the conclave.”
“The conclave?”
He gives me a short nod, and a sweep of dark hair dips over his forehead. “It’s the carved wooden door to the right of the conservatory. Don’t go inside.”
“Then . . . what do you want me to do if I can’t speak to anyone or go inside the room where people need to be served?” I ask, rocking back on my heels.
“Whatever Tanya tells you to do.” A buzzing sound comes from his pocket, and he tenses. “I have to go. Don’t fuck up anything tonight.”
As he walks away, I feel like he leaves behind unsaid words hanging in the air. “Your life depends on it.”
A raft of shivers rips down my spine. Like someone just walked over my grave. I straighten my shoulders and pull myself together.
Tonight’s the night. Time to get down to business.
10
Drew
The Italians have arrived. It’s midnight, and the club was silent for a
whole fifteen minutes before a contingent of men swept through the door. Caught out in the open, near the bar where I just finished putting away clean glasses, I smile and do my best Vanna White impression. My arm gracefully extends outward, in a silent gesture that they should continue forward toward the carved door where Tanya is putting the finishing touches on the room for the meeting.
“They’re scaling up around here,” one of them says as he walks by me. He appears to be the youngest of the bunch and has slicked-back black hair.
His leer leaves me feeling like Donny’s did earlier, like I got sprayed with gutter slime, but my smile never wavers.
Four men file into the conclave—two important guests and a pair who are obviously bodyguards. Once they’re out of sight, I hurry to Stefano and the bar that now feels like safety, regardless of the fact that I met the man only a few hours ago. His tall, broad-shouldered form is nearly as big as Grice’s, but instead of being bald like the younger security guard, his snow-white hair is styled in a spiky fashion. He wears black slacks, a white shirt, and a black vest and tie, which is the masculine version of what I wear.
“Why am I getting the impression that Cannon told me not to talk to them for my safety and not because he was worried about me embarrassing him and the club?” I whisper.
Stefano pauses polishing an already spotless glass behind the bar. “Because he did. You don’t want the Rossettis to remember you.”
Oh my God. That’s who they are.
The Rossettis. The Cassos’ number-one rival crime family in the city. I know the name, but since I’ve spent almost all my time digging exclusively into the Cassos, I don’t know as many details as I’d like.
“The Rossettis?” I hook my thumbs in the pockets of my vest as I try to casually pump Stefano for more information while pretending I’ve never heard of them. Meanwhile, my brain is going crazy.
Holy shit. This meeting is a huge fucking deal. My research showed that these two families have been mortal enemies for decades. Many suspected but unconfirmed incidents, both offensive and retaliatory, have been linked to both families.