Page 10 of Consumed By the Mafia

He wanted to see inside Abby’s place. He wanted to see how she lived, whether she kept a meticulous apartment, lived ina mess, or somewhere in between. He wanted to stand in her space and breathe her in at every turn.

If she would relax a little, and trust him, he thought maybe he could see himself bringing her over. They weren’t there yet, but hell, the thought hadn’t once crossed his mind for as long as he’d lived in this house. That had to mean something.Might just mean I’ve finally lost my mind.He’d barely known the woman for twelve hours, and she was under his skin.

Ryoma pushed the thought down for the time being, extracted the handgun from its holster in his boot, and strode through the house. He grinned to himself as he set the gun on his nightstand. It amused the shit out of him that they’d both had guns tucked into their boots last night. Normally he used the waistband of his pants, but it was easier to be casual if people weren’t staring like he might start shooting, and they tended to do that when a gun was visible. So he’d opted for his boot.

He tore off his day-old clothes, dumping everything through the faux laundry chute that led to the actual laundry room on the other side of the wall. Not ten minutes later he was publicly acceptable, gun properly holstered, and back in his car. He texted Cris to give the man a heads up and aimed himself in the direction of his friend’s penthouse.

Saturday traffic slowed him down by a few minutes, but soon enough Ryoma was riding up to the penthouse in the main elevator. He was technically the only non-De Salvo Cristiano had given access to the private elevator, but he tried very hard not tousethat elevator now that Cris had a woman. He didn’t ever want to walk in on them having lost track of time.

The elevator deposited him at the first floor of the penthouse and Ryoma pocketed his key, opting to ring the bell beside the private door instead of letting himself in. It was the same thing otherwise.

Cris pulled the door open thirty seconds later. “Still a chicken-shit, I see.”

“No one wants to walk in on their siblings getting freaky,” Ryoma tossed back.

The door clicked behind them and Cris turned to lead the way through the small in-home gym and back up the stairs to the main space. He had other rooms, and the conference room down on floor twenty-five, but he made no bones about keeping his wife included. Ryoma admired that, and the fact that it seemed to be a genetic trait in the man’s family.

“You do realize you’re going to have come clean about this mystery woman now that you’re here,” Cris said as they climbed the stairs.

Ryoma rolled his eyes. “Hai, hai.”

When they stepped into the sitting room, Felicity unfolded from the sofa and set her Kindle on the side table. “Ryoma! I want to hear all about this new girlfriend of yours. Cristiano says he’s never known you to look twice at a woman.”

Cris chuckled and dropped into the far corner of the sofa, leaning back to get comfortable. “That’s notexactlywhat I said, baby.”

Felicity shot him a poorly suppressed grin. “I’m not repeating what you said. It wouldn’t sound right coming from me.”

Ryoma grinned, reached out to ruffle Felicity’s hair while she wasn’t looking, and moved to the chair heusually claimed as her protest filled the air. “Don’t worry, little sister, I’ll answer at least most of your questions.”

Cris pulled his wife up to his side while she fussed with her hair. “Let’s get work out of the way first, then. Your text sounded important.”

Right. That.Ryoma let his amusement fade. “I had an unexpected visitor at my favorite bar last night,” he said, though he didn’t make his friend guess. “Chief Silva came up to me and made a point of saying how he’s been tryin’ to get hold of the boss, but hasn’t heard back. Said he wanted to pass along his congratulations.”

Felicity’s eyes widened as Cris’s narrowed. She looked up her husband. “Is he supposed to know yet?”

“No,” Cris said, voice low and tight. “No, he’s not.”

four

Encounter

Abigail’s Sunday morning jogended with her smothering her nerves in fresh baked pastry. Did it completely negate the point of the exercise? Absolutely. Did it make her feel just a tiny bit better when the sugary sweetness, fruity filling, and picture-perfect chocolate glaze coated her tongue? God, yes. For maybe five minutes, she was just a woman sitting at a table in a busy bakery, minding her own business and feeling so damn good about it.

Then she registered the figures her eyes had been trackingbeyond the window.

Rodrigo Silva, the same chief of police who’d made an awkward presence of himself at the bar the other night, and a man she couldn’t identify. They had stepped aside, up against the corner of the building, and looked for all the world to be having a hushed conversation right there in broad daylight.

He’s the police chief. He can do that.

The thought wasn’t inaccurate. She just couldn’t shake the feeling that it might also be what he, or both men, were counting on. Abigail popped the last of her indulgent donut purchase into her mouth.

The cold mask that had settled over Ryoma’s face when Silva had interrupted their conversation flashed through her mind. Objectively, if a man she suspected to be a long-serving member of a criminal organization was in not the greatest standing with the chief, she ought to have the opposite opinion. Except she’d heard Silva’s words, too.

“I’ve been trying to get in touch with your boss.”

Unless Abigail was terribly misinformed, that had to mean Silva knew. At least enough to know who to approach, and what not to say in front of strangers. He knew, and he wasn’t taking action. All of which raised too many suspicions to ignore.

That possibility would delight Newark’s head agent, Julian Albert. He hadn’t been a fan of Rodrigo Silva’s for as long as she’d known him. But she couldn’t just bring this theory to him, she needed proof.Story of my life.

---