Page 5 of Mine to Tease

I shake my head and take a deep breath, ending my pacing by plopping down on my favorite spot on the iron stairwell. Ru lies at the foot of the stairs. Before her I was never a dog person or animal lover in general, but she’s good company seeing as I’m the only permanent resident at 500 Royal Street. Gio still has a room here, but most of his time is spent at the Amato estate. A few of the other guys pop in and out. Maybe once they’re assigned clients they’ll be here more often since this is where all of the monitoring screens are. Though it’s also possible they’ll take up residence near their charge just as Aidan has moved Anastasia in right next door to me. At that, I bring my fingers to my temples and try to massage away my frustration.

The truth is, this has nothing to do with Anastasia. Well, maybe a little. She’s the sister of my enemy, and from everything I’ve heard, she’s going to be a handful. But, more than that, it’s what taking this assignment represents. Alister left New Orleans—abandoned his throne, his people, and his way of life—for a woman, a true love. Me? I have no one. No one to love. No one to be loyal to aside from Alister, and God only knows what that even means anymore. I have no one to plan a life around, and so, my life was planned for me.

Do I even want someone? For years, the answer has been no. Not only is a relationship ill-advised in my line of work, it’s not like I’ve had time to pursue one with protecting Sophia. Protecting Anastasia will be no different. If anything, it’ll be more time-consuming because she doesn’t have a fortified estate like the Amatos to give me even the slightest break. I’ll have to watch her constantly, even when she’s at home. But, the truth is, that’s more of an excuse than anything else. The real reason why I can’t fathom falling in love, and perhaps why I struggle to support Alister’s decision, is because it hurts too much when you lose them. As thoughts of my mom and the man formerly known as my father come to me, I shake them from my head. Though, as my mind races from the past to the present, I realize I’m just as much to blame as Alister and Gio for my current predicament.

I didn’t have to join B&B. I could’ve walked away from the organization completely. I could’ve left New Orleans. Without the Mafia, I have no reason to stay, and maybe that’s the crux of my complaints. I crave purpose and direction, a sense of unity and family, especially since my mom’s untimely death. Maybe on some subconscious level I even crave love or, at a minimum, real companionship. And protecting Anastasia Cross gives me none of those things. Even so, gripping the folder in my hands, I know there’s no more avoiding it. This is my life now, whether I like it or not. At least, as long as Anastasia’s in New Orleans. Since this is an experiment of sorts, her stay in the Crescent City may not last as long as she thinks. Hmm, I bet I can contribute to her misery, especially as her landlord. Aidan couldn’t convince her to stay in Boston, but maybe I can convince her to return. A small smile lifts my lips as the wicked thought gives me hope.

“Let’s see what we’re working with,” I say to myself, finally opening up the file on Ms. Anastasia Cross. Inside, the first thing I see is a pair of piercing green eyes, almost the color of sage. I’m drawn straight to them. Scanning the picture clipped to a pile of papers half an inch thick, I find her lips round and plush like a doll. They are painted the same red-orange color as her long, thick curls. Her hair sprawls all around her, covering her narrow shoulders, falling down just beneath her breasts. The photo ends there, but based on her upper half, I can tell she’s small. I lift the picture to check out the information on the first page of her work-up. “Yep, five-three.” Her hair probably makes up a third of her body weight, not even exaggerating. “She’d be an easy snatch and grab, that’s for sure.” With a face like that, I anticipate more than Aidan’s enemies will attempt it. “I’d like to see them try.”

Seeing her now makes me realize how stupid her brother is to put her so close to Bourbon Street, and yet, it also gives me an ego boost. Aidan either doesn’t realize how dangerous New Orleans actually is, especially for a woman, especially at night, or he does and has that much confidence in me to keep her safe. Or he’s diabolical and hopes I fail just so he can take out the Amatos’ top soldier. Yeah, no. This job has made me too paranoid.

I continue flipping through Anastasia’s file, learning all I can about my new charge. She’s twenty-four, well educated; loves flowers, books, and fashion; enjoys playing pickleball with her best frenemies Monica and Eloise—Aidan’s word, not mine—serves on several boards in Boston but has never worked a day in her life; is allergic to mushrooms; has a fear of needles and spiders and is easily overstimulated by loud noises—hmm, I can use that—is a night owl but requires at least eight hours of sleep every night; only drinks Fiji water; favorite snacks are Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, honey buns, and caviar—real diverse palate, I see—lost her parents in a boating accident four years ago. Well, that explains why her brother is her caretaker.

I’ve got to admit, knowing she lost her parents makes me have a little empathy for her. The circumstances were different, but I know the same pain. Even more so, I know what it’s like walking around a city and finding reminders of them everywhere you go. That would be even more of a reason for her to want to leave Boston. Though, just as quickly as my empathy for her appeared, it disintegrates as I flip to the next page and find a white fur ball with a devilish grin staring back at me.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groan. I scan through the three pages dedicated solely to Brinkley, the white Pom Anastasia got shortly after her parents’ passing. God, with a name like that, what does that say about her? After scanning through his mini-work-up, I find he’s just as pretentious as she is, if not more. The little bastard drinks only filtered water, wears a custom outfit every single day, and requires grooming every third day on the dot. Apparently, he does not play well with others—dogs or humans—and sleeps on a custom Chanel bed. “Jesus!” There’s a handwritten comment in the margin stating that Brinkley is her life.

“He’s a fucking rat, a sorry excuse for a dog.” Suddenly, I’m questioning Anastasia’s sanity in choosing him and naming him. At that, I glance down at Ru. “Maybe you could eat him. Maybe that’ll do the trick and send the princess packing.” Ru tilts her head to the side as if considering it. “No.” I shake my head. “Damon’s just being an asshole,” I tell her. Although, I will bank the idea as a last resort.

The final pages are about the Cross family, their position in the mob, their known associates and enemies, people on their payroll. It’s good to know these things, especially as it relates to those who may come after Anastasia if they discover her location. I can input their names into the system, and if they step foot in New Orleans, I’ll be notified. All it takes is one city camera or one of ours picking up their facial features. It’s pretty incredible the kind of technology Cassio’s company produces. Additionally, there are phone numbers for her security detail back home and an attorney.

By the time I finish briefing myself, my eyes burn. I know enough to know I’m no match for this girl. From everything I’ve gathered, she’s used to being watched by yes-men, doormats with muscles. They’ve done a good job, clearly. I see no reported abductions or even close calls. With a team of five to six men, they watch her every move while driving her, wiping Brinkley’s ass, opening every door, and carrying her hoards of shopping bags. That is not me by any stretch. I mean, I’m a gentleman, but there are limits. And my top priority is my client’s safety, not their comfort.

In need of a nap, I settle for a drink. Snapping the folder shut, I push myself up off the steps and make my way to the bar cart close to the main entrance. Just because I understand Anastasia’s need for a change of scenery doesn’t mean it has to be New Orleans. She could pick any city, go anywhere. She’s not even allowed to see her brother while she’s here, which is probably the best thing about this assignment. If she doesn’t see him, I don’t either. But, more than that, if Aidan isn’t a reason to stay, it’ll be that much easier for me to convince her to leave. She can go have her fresh start somewhere else, somewhere far, far away from me.

It’s then that I grab the decanter filled with bourbon, my beverage of choice, and pour myself a glass. The warm, slightly sweet liquid burns just enough to ease my tension and chase away my grogginess. It’s after dark and I still haven’t tapped into her security cameras. I also need to make sure she’s downloaded the B&B app like her brother told her to. Once she does, it’ll secretly install a tracking software so that I can keep up with her even when she’s roaming around the city. “Uh, it’s going to be a long night, and many more over the coming weeks, months, years?” Hopefully, she doesn’t last that long. Though, for all I know, she’s already dead, and therefore, so am I. Ha, one can only hope.

I laugh at my own dark humor as I cross the courtyard and jog up the stairs to the second floor of the Compound. It’s there that we house most of our gear and conduct our business while the third story serves as sleeping quarters. Stepping through the antique French doors, I leave behind old-world beauty for a room full of wires, computers, and walls covered with TVs used for displaying the cameras we have access to. While one screen is for the Compound itself, another displays other select cameras. We have some on all the street corners within a three-block radius of us recording at all times so we can see if anyone who shouldn’t be here is approaching. There are even some at the Amato estate as well as some of the Amato-owned businesses in the French Quarter. The third screen, well, soon enough that one will be filled with Anastasia.

I sit down at my desk and type up a quick profile for her based on the intake documents Gio provided me. I see that she has downloaded the app and she’s right where she should be. Lastly, I assign all the cameras at her home and her soon-to-be shop to her profile. All that’s left is giving her a code name and I’ll have access to the live feed. Hmm. My first thoughts are Princess, Ginger, or Clover—a sign of the Irish. But all of those are either too cheesy, too vague, or too identifiable. The whole point of a code name is so that if our system is hacked, no one can identify who our clients are.

I glance at Anastasia’s photo, my tired eyes going straight to her bright ones. “What to call you?” I find my answer in the softness of her pale, peachy skin and the innocence in her stare. She’s been sheltered her entire life, so much so she’s still practically a child, and yet, she’s breaking free whether she’s prepared to or not—just like a baby bird. I type in my chosen name for Anastasia, and within seconds, I find her perched on a stool at her kitchen island. She wears pink silk pajamas with her hair wrapped up in a towel as she eats something from a to-go box, dropping Brinkley tiny bites about as often as she feeds herself.

She’s quite beautiful, equally as so without makeup as she is with it. Not that that matters. I shake my head as if to dislodge the unwanted thought. Leaning forward, I clasp my hands together, resting my chin against them as I watch her until she falls asleep.

“Get your rest, baby bird. You’re going to need it,” I whisper, leaving the surveillance room for some shut-eye of my own.

6

After a restful night’s sleep in my four-poster bed, a hot cup of my favorite cinnamon-flavored coffee, and three outfit changes later—I opted for a ruffled white skirt and a pastel pink off-the-shoulder sweater with a sweetheart neckline—I’m on my way to see my shop for the first time. I’m so excited, I barely notice the famous New Orleans stench as I round the corner from dirty Dumaine onto Royal Street. As if the name itself demands a certain level of decency, the brisk two-and-a-half-block walk is far more enjoyable and scenic than the view from my cottage. There are fewer cracks in the sidewalks and potholes in the street. Beautiful historic buildings with intricate iron balconies line the street on both sides. On them, I find the first blooms of the new year and hoards of Mardi Gras beads. Oh, I forgot that was a thing down here. Hmm.

I pass several restaurants and historic inns, a cute bookstore I make a mental note to check out, and a beautiful garden located behind something that looks like a castle. Oh, right! The cathedral at Jackson Square. As Brinkley assumes his squat position, I yank him up. “Those are church grounds, Brink. Where are your manners?” Although, I will have to find someplace for him soon. Even behind my cottage, there’s nothing but concrete, and while that’s fine for number one, it’s not as suitable for number two. Though the rank air lets me know not everyone abides by those standards.

I hold Brinkley close as I finish the trek, finding the building sandwiched between a market and a cutesy restaurant named the Court of Two Sisters. Not too shabby. I’ll be able to grab groceries after work as I need them and being located next to one of the most famous and historic restaurants in town can only be good for business. Although, being next to a tattoo parlor, not so much. I pull out my phone to double-check the address Aidan gave me.

“Well, Brink, this looks like the right place,” I say despite my confusion. It seems this building is already occupied, but perhaps there’s more than one unit. There’s only one way to find out.

Brinkley in tow, I cross the street to the building made of weathered red bricks. A single sign hangs from the floor of the second-story balcony with the words Only Black Ink written in plain font. The first floor is framed by white molding encasing two windows and the stoop entry. Medium green shutters on each side of the windows offer a nice touch to the otherwise black, white, and brick building. Although, the intricate iron work of the second-story balcony is also quite nice.

I make my way onto the stoop and wipe my nude-colored boots on the black-and-gray-checkered tiles. Swiftly, I push the white-painted door open only to be met by the most god-awful, blood-curdling, mind-numbing metal music. “Oh my God!” I instantly pull Brinkley closer to me, covering his ear while pressing the other against my chest. I lift my free hand to try to save my own hearing, but it’s no use. This sorry excuse for music is impossible to escape.

I move past the wooden stairwell farther into the main space of the building even though all I want to do is run outside. I’d take the New Orleans stench over this any day. Though, despite the atrocious music, I find the space empty save for the sketches covering the black-painted brick walls, the few tattoo booths lining the far wall of the rather narrow space, and a grouping of furniture just to my right. Wincing, I move my hand from my ear to my purse and pull out my phone to check the time. I’m five minutes late. Whoever I’m set to meet should be here.

“Uh,” I moan. “Is anyone here?” I call out, though I can barely hear my own voice. I scan the room for the stereo control system, finding nothing. All the while, my skin becomes damp with sweat and my ears begin to ring. Soon enough, my eye will start twitching. This is insane. This can’t be the right place. And, even if it is, this is not going to work. There is no way?—

“Excuse me, can I help you?”

A tall tattooed tower of a man has appeared and come to stand before me. I’m taken aback by his presence. My eyes widen and my grasp on Brinkley loosens as I take him in. He is dressed in all black, the sleeves of his sweater pushed up to his elbows revealing muscular arms completely covered in meticulous designs, stretching from his fingertips upward. But they don’t stop beneath his shirt, which, paired with his sharp jawline and broody glare, is perhaps why I find him so intimidating. I’ve never seen someone with as many tattoos as him. They poke out from under the collar of his shirt, covering his neck, tracing up his jaw onto the sides and back of his head where his hair has been shaved, leaving only a mop of brown curls on top. The pain he must’ve endured for all of that and why? Fittingly, all his tattoos, at least the ones I can see, are in only black ink. How very fitting. Additionally, unlike the men I’m used to being around, he wears jewelry, lots of it. Small stud earrings, chunky rings and bracelets, and several tiny chains around his neck. Hmm, I do appreciate a good accessory, and it is nice to come across a man with a sense of style.

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