Page 18 of Diamond In The Rough

But when her eyes flash, I acknowledge I’m being dismissive and flirting with unemployment.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Colby. I did what I thought was best. The desk sold for above asking price, it’s going to what I can only assume is a good home, and now you have a new name in your records who may be interested in more of your wares.”

“You’re causing disruption inside the building I’ve prided on elegance and elitism.” If she could stomp her feet and remain dignified, I’m sure she would. “This is not an alleyway shop that poor people through in search of a bargain. This is a gallery of artwork, set aside exclusively for those who are worthy.”

“And I sold a unique piece to a man who fit the parameters of your desired clientele.” You snobbish jerk. “But don’t discount alleyway antique stores. They are, after all, where countless treasures hide. Just as I told Mr. Harrison, a piece is worth only what someone is willing to pay for it.”

I check my computer screen, relieved as the clock in the corner clicks over from four-fifty-nine to five. Switching the monitor off and opening my drawer, I grab my bag, toss my phone inside, and snatch out that stick of gum surely worth trillions.

“I’m done for today, Ms. Colby. I remain abundantly conscious of your discomfort having me here. I’m not the usual type—” of elite, stuck-up bitch, “you would employ, I know. In acknowledgment of that, I sincerely appreciate your grace.” I slip my bag over my head, crossing the strap over my chest so the leather rests between my breasts. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Nine a.m. sharp,” she sniffs. “Our couriers will be here to transport Mr. Harrison’s purchase, and he has specifically requested that you be here to see it off.”

Is this how rich men flirt? I wonder.

But I slide my chair back under my desk and smile away the thought. I’m not interested, and it’s time for me to leave. “I’ll be here. Goodnight, Jakeline.”

5

MICAH

SPIES, SPIES, EVERYWHERE

Isit on the back patio of my family’s estate, and observe the afternoon sun coming down in the west, the dregs of a summer day glittering off the pool I rarely, if ever, use.

It’s not my thing, really. To strip off. To dive beneath the surface, and provide an easy target for anyone nearby looking to harm me.

Underwater, I can’t see what’s happening poolside. I can’t hear. A pool, in my mind, is an exercise in sensory deprivation—and I’m not about chopping my instincts off like unwanted appendages.

I prefer to sit at the iron table, and keep watch over my family.

Felix and Christabelle recline on sun loungers by the water, with Bastard, the dog, on the ground at their side. With their skin exposed to the afternoon rays, and sunglasses covering their faces, I’m not sure they’ve truly returned from the Caribbean vacation we all took so recently.

Physically, they’re here in New York. But mentally, they sip mai tais on the beach.

“Cordoza called,” Felix announces, lazily stroking Christabelle’s lean thigh. Though I sure as shit don’t look at her legs. And neither do Stovic or Michaels, who stand guard by the door. “This new guy, Wilkes, is making waves. But he’s quiet-ish. He’s in the boroughs, trying to work that turf without being noticed.”

“Wilkes?” I sit back on the aged iron chair and spin a single grape between my fingers. A platter overflowing with fresh fruit sits inches from my elbow; an afternoon snack Mary prepared for us, to combat the oppressive heat. But I’m not interested in eating. And Felix is interested in nothing except money and Christabelle. “What’s his story?”

“Joseph Wilkes was born in Nottingham, England,” Christabelle explains, “forty-three years ago. His parents are Edward and Cleo Wilkes. They were one of the more affluent families in the Nottingham area, which is known for low-income families.”

“See how smart she is?” Twisting on his chair, Felix meets my eyes. “Christabelle Cannon knows more than Google.”

“Literally not true,” she drawls. “In fact, most of that, I got from the internet. Joseph Wilkes has quite the reputation back home: violence, aggression, and making first contact.”

I continue to roll the grape in my hand and frown. “First contact. As in…?”

“He’s not one to join someone else’s war. He’d prefer to start his own, if there’s a prize waiting at the finish line. Rumblings on the street right now are that, with Mancino dead, Pastore gone, Timothy Malone the Second in the ground, and Agosti’s fortune dwindling, Felix and Cordoza are the big targets for a takeover. Wilkes has come searching for a little ground to occupy.”

“Can’t declare war if you don’t have an army,” Lix rumbles. “He wants to dance, but he’s homeless and friendless.”

“Also untrue.” Christabelle pushes her sunglasses up. “Wilkes has been in the city, officially, for just a few months. Perhaps longer, but he kept it quiet until then. Mancino dropped last year, your father crapped out earlier this year, and Pastore was taken out last month; that’s a lot of movement for one city in the space of twelve months.”

“Movement is dangerous.” I split the grape’s skin with my finger and tear the fruit open. “Another word for ‘movement’ is instability. If Wilkes makes enough friends?—”

“Wilkes is a small-time nobody,” Felix inserts. “He’s not gonna make enough noise to screw with us.”

“Sir?”

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