Page 1 of Mine to Tease

1

Midday sun streams in through the newly installed bulletproof glass ceiling of the Compound, illuminating the stone pavers and antique fountain as it fills the ancient room with the soft sounds of trickling water. French-style furniture is scattered about the space, equally as old, I imagine, while crisp ferns begging to be discarded hang from the iron railing of the balconies overlooking the courtyard, once the site of lavish parties and balls now as grim as the expression on my face.

Over two hundred years ago, when New Orleans’ French Quarter was first settled, the place I now call home was a mansion for some wealthy aristocrat, outfitted with three stories, exterior balconies overlooking Royal and Dumaine and the interior courtyard once open to the sky, and let’s not forget the dungeons and escape tunnels the Office of City Planning knows nothing about. Over time, its use changed to a hotel, an apartment complex, and then my boss, Gio Moretti, took ownership and turned it into his personal playhouse just one block off Bourbon Street. Well, all of that was before Alister left. Everything is different now.

Since my cousin, Alister Amato, ruler of the New Orleans Mafia and all of its additional territories, relinquished his throne to the Irish and abandoned our city, everyone has been scrambling to pick up the pieces with Gio leading the charge. From finding a place for the misplaced, to trying to maintain a sense of family as our ties to one another break, to easing tensions between two factions sworn to be enemies now forced to be allies, Gio has had his hands full. And that’s without even mentioning everything he’s doing to make sure there is no evidence tying Alister to organized crime so that he can return one day—to this city, to his love. Secretly, I hope he returns for more than just that. His throne is his birthright just as this city, these streets are mine. And yet, it doesn’t feel like it. Not anymore.

With the stroke of a pen, a reign over one hundred years in the making came to an end. And with it, we were given two choices—either join Josephine Cullen and her proxy king Aidan Cross’s ranks within the Irish mob, cutting all ties to the Mafia, its traditions, rituals, and customs, our Italian heritage, and all allegiance to the Amato family or remain loyal to Alister and follow his lead by giving up our ties to organized crime. Though Alister and Josephine are now allies, there can be only one king or queen in New Orleans, and to join the Irish mob is to choose Josephine.

It’s been just over a month since Alister’s departure, and it’s been quiet—too quiet. As word spreads, war—or, at the minimum, rebellion—will likely follow. No Italian who values their history will submit to the Irish mob. And with the Amato territories extending far beyond New Orleans, it wouldn’t surprise me if many of Alister’s capos decide to strike out on their own, which will go against Alister’s command and draw a response from New Orleans’ new king. Just thinking it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I know no king other than the one I share blood with and have pledged my life to. That isn’t the case for everyone though. Some have already chosen to join the Cullen/Cross regime. I hear the money is decent, but I’m not so easily bought.

I took an oath—as a soldier, as a protector, as a member of the Mafia. Mafiosi is who I am. I can’t simply shed my tattooed skin on a whim. A whim. Yeah, that’s what I’m hoping this is. Alister will be back, and when he returns, so will the feeling of family and sense of pride being part of his ranks offered me and so many others. In the meantime, Gio has taken measures to reward Alister’s top soldiers for our loyalty by creating a way for us to remain employed by the Amatos yet on the right side of the law. Hence, the new place of residence and job title for that matter.

As Gio continues mending tensions between the Italians and our new Irish neighbors, destroying any evidence that may be used against Alister and his sister, Sophia, my former charge, and serving as main protector for Alister’s love, Ariana, I’ve been tasked with setting up B&B Private Security. Turning a playhouse once crawling with women into a respectable place of business and fortified safe house was no easy task, especially when you tack on the strict guidelines of the Historical Preservation Society. Thankfully, the Amato name still holds weight around here, and what they didn’t approve, I made happen under their radar. Like I said, I can’t just shed my skin.

From the new bulletproof roof to the coded entry, reinforced steel doors on the exterior that can be electronically opened and closed, state-of-the-art security cameras with facial and weapons’ recognition technology to encrypted communication devices, passcodes to access city surveillance cameras, access to unmarked private cars with bulletproof and tinted glass, to organizing our weaponry station, to creating our company policies and training the few men Gio deemed worthy to join our little regime, January was the busiest month of my life, and this very moment feels like the first chance I’ve had to breathe since learning of my cousin’s decision. And yet, it’s short-lived.

As I sit on the steps of the iron staircase overlooking the courtyard turned lobby, for lack of a better word, I glance at my watch. Gio should be here any minute. He told me I had to have the Compound operational by the first of February, as in today. So, I can only assume today’s meeting will be a final inspection before he turns me loose. Loose to do what is the question. It’s my job to manage B&B, which means meeting with potential clients, pairing them with protectors, making sure my men are meeting the client’s expectations as well as mine, and, of course, handling the shitty paperwork, which I have practice doing since I also own a tattoo parlor just down the street. But, in all that, will I also have time to take on assignments myself? Doubtful, even though that’s the part I enjoy most.

Growing up, I spent every summer at the Amato estate with Alister, Sophia, and, of course, their baby sister, Cara, may God rest her soul. But everything changed after their mother passed or, rather, was taken from them. Domenico, their father, my uncle, became obsessed with teaching them how to protect themselves. Well, Alister and Sophia. Cara was just a baby. Being the same age as Sophia, of course I partook. By eighteen, I could handle most weapons with extreme efficiency and accuracy, and in the ten years since, I’ve only gotten better.

Domenico made it his mission to train me himself, both in physical combat and mental warfare. I served on his personal protection detail until Sophia finished college, and then I was assigned to her as her lead protector. He always intended me for her—someone he could trust to keep her safe both in the boardroom and outside of it, and, of course, someone without any ulterior motives, as she is my own blood. He said, “Only the best can protect a princess,” and so he made me the best. Now, she’s away in Savannah under the protection of her boyfriend, Cassio, and his men. I know she’s safe with him. But, with her gone, so too is my focus and purpose.

This whole month I’ve felt like I’m running in circles. Running, doing this and doing that, but for what, for whom? I’ve never known a world without a mission. Will I ever find my way back to it? To that drive, that focus, that purpose? Even as I wish for it, I question if that’s what I truly want.

It’s easy to put your life on the line for your family, for someone you love, for someone you’re loyal to. When it came to Sophia, her father before her, and the Amatos in general, I took pride in protecting them, serving them, because they were mine to protect in so many ways. I don’t know how to offer someone new that same sense of protection and loyalty. I don’t know how to put my life on the line for someone I barely know and whose only connection to me is through the check they cut. Exhausted by my mental turmoil, I take a deep breath and rub my fingers against my temples. Maybe this change of course is for the best. Besides, who even knows the kinds of clients B&B will attract and if I’d even want to serve them? Some rich man’s daughter in town for the Saints game or Jazz Fest or, better yet, a fucking bachelorette party. Kill me now. With those candidates in mind, I choose the shitty paperwork.

As my thoughts get the best of me, I rest my elbows atop my knees and bury my head in my hands. Though as Ru, the extent of B&B’s mental health policy, jumps from her spot on her favorite couch and rushes to stand in front of me at the foot of the stairwell, I know my time to dwell in my own misery has ended. Promptly, I rise and join Ru, standing with my feet together and hands behind my back. It’s unnecessary. Gio is like family to me, but he’s still my boss and it’s customary to greet your boss with such a stance—at least in our world, the one I’m not sure even still exists.

My watch vibrates against my wrist then, letting me know Gio has entered his assigned code and will be here shortly. Though a second vibration—more intense than the first—lets me know a second person, one without a code, has entered the premises with him. My dark brows furrow as Ru, once again, positions herself in front of me. With her tail erect, a low growl escapes her. Whoever is with Gio isn’t one of our men. She would recognize their scent. As the sounds of their footsteps grow louder against the stone-paved floor, I break my stance, moving my eyes to my watch. As the facial recognition camera picks up our guest, the name Aidan Cross displays on the small screen attached to my wrist along with his pale mug and mop of ginger hair.

“Shit.”

2

Just a few minutes away from seeing my new home for the first time, I pop my head up as my driver maneuvers the narrow streets of the New Orleans French Quarter. I find old double-gallery homes now turned into hotels and museums, exquisite cathedrals, funky theaters, tons of bars and restaurants, and even a voodoo shop or two. There are many similarities between this little corner of the world and my neighborhood back home. Like Beacon Hill, the French Quarter is full of history and beautiful architecture. Everywhere I turn, there’s something interesting—nooks and crannies of a city I can’t wait to explore.

As we pass a section of cute, colorful cottages painted in shades of purple, blue, pink, and yellow, my anticipation builds. Each one seems to have its own personality with different shutter styles, intricate corbels, and gas lanterns. Oh, that one is pretty! It’s like a little dollhouse. I hope Aidan got me one just like it. “How far are we?” I ask, tapping my feet in excitement. The flight from Boston wasn’t bad considering I used the family jet. Still, I feel like I’ve been sitting for ages.

“A few more minutes. This is Orleans Street. You’re on Dumaine.” I nod, acknowledging the driver, though my bright green eyes are relentless as they take in my new surroundings.

This is going to be good for me. At least, that’s what I tell myself. The houses are small, yes, and New Orleans is a bit grungier than I’m used to in Beacon Hill. Less cobblestone, more potholes. A little more sketchy than sophisticated, I guess. I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen a fortune teller on a street corner before, and my smile instantly falls as I spot the graffiti painted onto the once-regal building behind her. I guess this is the place where old meets new. As I start to notice more and more loitering men, I find this is the case in more ways than one. Perhaps I’m wrong to assume they’re on my brother’s payroll, not that they would know Aidan from the next redheaded man in a suit, but I’m not so sheltered that I don’t know a drug dealer when I see one. At that, I exhale and return my attention to my thoughts.

It’s not that I don’t like the business my family is in. I mean, in actuality, all I know is from the internet, which isn’t necessarily accurate or up-to-date. Not that I care. It just isn’t the way of the mob to educate their women in such matters despite having a female leader. Quite frankly, the only reason Josephine Cullen is the leader of the Irish mob is because her father didn’t have any sons and he was too prideful to let the crown pass to someone who didn’t share his last name.

In my world, women are seen as brainless bimbos—arm candy—who enjoy nothing but shopping and partying. Perhaps because that’s all we’re allowed to do. A man is judged not by the smile on his woman’s face but by the diamonds around her neck and the number of zeros in the price of her shoes and handbags. Don’t get me wrong, I quite enjoy being spoiled. I’m a professional princess. But…I want more. Perhaps that is my princess mentality at its finest. I could have everything and still not be satisfied, at least that’s what my brother tells me. And yet, I don’t have everything.

Back home, I’m under constant surveillance by my brother’s guards. Even within the confines of my two-story townhome, there are two. When I leave the premises, the sheer act of which must be approved ahead of time, more slither in from the shadows.

I know that my brother loves me, and he’s only so strict with me because he cares, but I’m twenty-four years old and I feel like I’ve never had the chance to breathe, to be alone, to make my own choices and mistakes. Hell, if it wasn’t for that one night in college that I slipped past my gun-wielding babysitters I’d still be a virgin. For all Aidan knows, I am. I just…I need a break. And as far as I’m concerned, New Orleans may be my only chance to take it, my one chance to put my business and marketing degrees to use, to live alone, to have tons of casual sex or maybe fall in love even if it’s destined to end. This is my chance to be free before my brother remembers I’m a chip on a poker table waiting to be cashed in the moment he needs me most. So, yeah, this will be good for me, I think to myself once more.

In New Orleans, no one knows who I am. The name Anastasia Cross means nothing. And anyone who does know me, thinks I’m on some retreat at an undisclosed European resort. That will explain my absence from the upcoming social calendar and social media. As long as I keep my distance from my brother, as he’s agreed to let me do, then even as word of his new position spreads and the target on his back grows, I should remain safe living quietly and comfortably out of the spotlight. At least, that’s the argument I used to convince him to let me come—safe and independent yet close enough if I truly need him. I just hope I can actually do this.

As my driver puts on the blinker and I spot a street sign with the name Dumaine, I know we’re close. “Eeek,” I let out a childish squeal as my feet, once more, do a happy dance. I reach for my Chanel and pull out my lip gloss, touching up my pink pout out of habit. Next up, teeth check and hair flip. As my long red curls drape over my shoulders, I’m reminded of my mother. She was so effortlessly beautiful and classy. Never with a stain or smudge or without a heel and splash of perfume. I learned all my best tricks from her. If only she and my father could see me now. Though, knowing them, it’s best they can’t.

“Alright, sweetheart. We’re here.”

As the driver pulls the town car to a stop, my cheeks beam with a rosy glow. Reaching down to my ankles, I yank up my white crew socks, making sure they’re even, pull down the hemline of my pink skirt, and straighten the sleeves of my matching bolero. Today’s outfit inspiration is preppy-tennis-princess in the perfect ballerina pink. And, because he always has to match, I pull Brinkley, my white Pomeranian, from the seat next to me to straighten his pink bowtie.

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