“Thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.”
He hasn’t stopped grinning or shaking my hand.
Ten more seconds of this shite, and I’ll break those Chiclets teeth of his.
“This is my associate, Mr. Byrne.” I extract my hand from Caruso’s death grip and gesture to Kieran, who inclines his head respectfully.
“Sir.”
“Mr. Byrne, welcome. And please, both of you, call me Gianni. I prefer if we’re all on a first-name basis, don’t you?”
I’d rather blind myself with acid, you wanker.
Kieran politely offers his name. I offer nothing. There’s an awkward pause while Caruso waits, but he gets the hint and suggests we retire to his study to speak in private.
After what feels like a death march through miles of echoing corridors, we arrive at the study. It’s probably larger than the law library at Notre Dame. We sit across from Caruso in a pair of leather chairs so uncomfortable, they had to be designed by sadists.
I haven’t been here ten minutes, and I’m already regretting the fuck out of this.
Until she walks in the door.
Dark hair, red lips, olive skin.
A black, low-cut dress.
Acres of cleavage.
Not only cleavage, but long legs and an hourglass figure that would make any man stupid with lust.
If he wasn’t too busy being turned to stone by the ice in her eyes, that is.
I’ve never seen an attractive serial killer, but I bet this is exactly what she’d look like.
“Mr. Quinn, Kieran,” says Caruso, gesturing to each of us in turn, “this is my sister, Reyna.”
I’m on my feet before I consciously make the decision to rise. Kieran stands, too, murmuring a greeting.
Reyna returns his hello and smiles at him, but when she turns her gaze to me, her smile dies.
She looks me dead in the eye and says, “Good afternoon, Mr. Quinn.”
It sounds like I’m going to eat your spleen for supper.
I’m not sure whether to laugh or ask what her bloody problem is, but go with a neutral greeting instead.
“Good afternoon to you, Ms. Caruso.”
My gaze drops to the ring finger of her left hand. It’s encircled by a small black tattoo, some wording in cursive too tiny to read from where I’m standing. “Or is it Mrs. something?”
I glance back up at her face to find her stony gaze turned to withering heat.
It’s a look that could melt steel. I’ve never seen such hot, wordless fury. It makes the burning lakes of fire in the deepest pits of hell look like cozy bubble baths in comparison.
All that heat and hate she’s blasting at me goes straight to my dick, which throbs in excitement.
Figures. The fucker only ever wants what he can’t have.
When she doesn’t answer my question long enough to make it uncomfortable, her brother answers for her.
“My sister is a widow.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Like a switch has been thrown, all the heat in her eyes cools to ice. “Thank you.”
She turns and walks stiffly to the windows behind her brother’s desk, where she gazes out with her arms folded over her chest, sending a wintry chill over the courtyard below.
I’m surprised the windowpanes don’t crackle with frost from her nearness.
Kieran and I share a look, then take our seats again.
Caruso says, “May I offer you a drink, gentlemen?”
Kieran declines. But I think I’m going to need liquid fortification to get through this meeting, so I accept.
From a bottom desk drawer, Caruso removes two cut crystal glasses and a carafe of ruby-colored liquor I assume is wine. By the time I’ve swallowed a mouthful of the bitter shite, it’s too late.
It sears a path down my windpipe, singeing all my nose hairs in its wake.
Caruso smiles at me with toothy anticipation. “It’s Campari. You’ve had it before?”
A shake of my head is all I can manage. If I tried to speak, I’d retch.
Over her shoulder, Reyna throws me a glance. She sees the look of disgust on my face and quickly turns back to the window, but not before she can hide her small, satisfied smile.
Maybe I’ll burn the house down after I marry the daughter. The neighbors would thank me, no doubt.
Caruso’s still rattling on about the Campari, how it’s famous in Italy, blah blah fucking blah, but I interrupt him to ask when I’ll meet Liliana.
“Oh. Yes. Liliana.”
For a moment, he looks disoriented, like he lost the plot. But he pulls himself together and plasters on his shite-eating grin again. “She’ll be right down.”
He turns slightly toward Reyna for confirmation.
She remains silent but nods.
In his smarmy politician’s way, Caruso says, “In the meantime, Mr. Quinn, allow me to extend my gratitude to both you and Mr. O’Donnell for the visit. I’m looking forward to getting to know both of you better as we join our families—”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I interrupt, setting the glass of foul liquid onto his desk. “After I meet your daughter, we’ll have plenty of time to talk about the future. As of right now, this deal hasn’t been inked.”
“Yes, of course,” he says, his voice subdued. “Please forgive me.”
Reyna turns from the window again, this time to send her brother an outraged, tight-lipped glare.
She’s thinking he’s a pussy for acting so weak. In his own bloody house, no less.
She’s right.
I rise from my chair, gazing at her. “Actually, I’d like to speak with your sister first for a few minutes. Alone.”
Caruso looks startled by the request.
Reyna looks like she’s wondering where the nearest hatchet is so she can bury it in my skull.
I have no idea why this woman hates me so much, but it’s starting to get annoying.
Regardless of what my dick thinks about her, she’s pissing me off.
Kieran stands, already knowing my request will be granted. Caruso follows, sending a nervous look in Reyna’s direction.
“Certainly. We’ll give you a moment. Kieran, why don’t I show you my collection of Fabergé eggs?”
With a straight face, Kieran says, “Can’t think of anything better, mate.”
They leave. As soon as the door closes behind them, I look at Reyna. “All right. You’ve obviously got something to say to me. Say it.”
She turns from the window, blinking. “I’m sorry, I have no idea what you mean.”
Her hand rests at the base of her throat. Her eyes are wide and guileless. She’s the picture of innocence, and she’s entirely full of shite.
I say, “Too late, woman. I’ve already seen the swamp witch you’re trying to hide under that human skin suit you’re wearing.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re not as good an actress as you think.”
She stares at me in blistering silence for a few seconds, then says icily, “Number one: don’t call me woman like it’s a pejorative. It’s not. Number two: if you’re not bright enough to know what the word pejorative means, ask your sidekick. He seems like he might have actually read a book once. Number three—”
“Will this take long? I’ve got a meeting to get through.”