Page 8 of Convenient Mafia Vows

I tried ending our relationship the decent way. I told her that I wasn’t ready for commitment, that I wanted to focus on my business, that we were both too young. The usual excuses. I even rolled out the typical it-isn’t-you-it’s-me cop out, although it was one hundred percent fucking her.

I didn’t need that shit then.

I still don’t need that shit now.

But she wouldn’t believe me now even if I promised her that there was no one else. That there’d been no one else for five years, three months, and twelve fucking days, not that I was counting.

No one that lived up to Sandy anyways.

Sure, there’d been other one-night stands—I was only fucking human—but I’d had every private investigator in the city try to find Sandy for me, and every one of them had drawn a blank.

I was drunk that New Year’s, but not so steaming that I don’t remember every single part of Sandy’s body. I can still taste her now. I can still hear her yelling at me, “I want you to let me come,” like she’d already accepted that she was mine.

MINE.

And I didn’t even realize how mine she was until I saw the specks of blood on the sheet when I woke up the next morning. Alone. I’d felt a surge of emotions that I immediately chalked up to a banging hangover tinged with guilt and something else I’ve still not managed to label. Suffice it to say though that Sandy made an everlasting impression on me, and I’ve long since given up trying to fight it.

My cock throbs inside my pants, and I adjust it while I open Olivia’s message. That’s one sure-fire way to make it grow limp.

Tonight’s the night, Caleb.

What does that even fucking mean?

Even if Sandy was a pure figment of my imagination, I’m not stupid enough to date Olivia Dragonetti again. I like my cock exactly where it is and in one piece. I like my life. Contrary to what my brothers believe, I even enjoy eating dinner alone,before I head downstairs to the casino and watch the losers ramping up the zeroes in my bank account.

One day, another Sandy will come along, maybe, and I’ll consider settling down and starting a family, but my kids sure-as-fuck are not having a Dragonetti Don as their favorite grandpa.

An email pops into my inbox.

The name Dragonetti makes my grilled lobster sour on my tongue. I guzzle cold water from the glass that arrived with my evening meal, a perfect crescent of lemon twisted onto the rim, before I read it.

The message is simple.

Old man Dragonetti wants a meeting here at the Wraith in an hour.

It isn’t optional. Dress code formal. He has a proposal that he thinks will be beneficial to us both.

I sit back and push the sweet pink lobster flesh on my plate around with a silver fork. He’s going to make me an offer that I can’t refuse because it will mean the Rinse will stop being raided, and my brother’s business will continue to flourish so long as I keep the old man happy. I have an hour to figure out my next move and make sure it’s at least a couple steps ahead of the Italian family.

The problem is that Don Mateo Dragonetti has the New York City Police Commissioner in his pocket. He has personally funded the private island vacation retreats and country mansions of every member of the Board of Commissioners, andit’s no secret that he funded the campaign of the current Mayor of the city.

An alliance between the two families would mean that the Murray brothers are untouchable. It’s the best alliance we could ever hope to make, but like all good deals, it comes at a price, and Olivia’s message is ringing the kind of alarm bells in my head that no amount of Louis XIII Cognac will erase.

I pick up the crisp white napkin withWraithembroidered in black and gold in one corner to dab my lips, as a slip of Wraith-headed paper tumbles onto the tray. Curious, I pick it up and unfold it. The words ‘Thank you’ are written in neat cursive.

That’s it.Thank you.

I turn it over—the back of the note is blank.

Standing, I cross the room and open the door, still holding the slip of paper in one hand. Lauren is seated at her desk outside my office. It’s late, but if I’m working, she’s working. It makes me feel like a prick sometimes, but Lauren is a bit of a control freak, and she doesn’t trust anyone else to look after me if she isn’t around. Besides, I pay her well, and I know she appreciates the all-expenses paid Caribbean cruise I send her on every year.

“Mr. Murray?” She’s on her feet in an instant. She slides her gold-rimmed glasses back up her nose in a gesture so ingrained she no longer realizes that she’s doing it. She’s tall, slim, her natural honey-blonde hair now turning gray.

“It’s okay, sit down, Lauren.” I cover the distance between us in two easy strides and show her the thank-you note. “Any idea who this is from?”

She furrows her brow, her lips almost disappearing into her frown. “Where…? How did you get this?” She turns and peers around the empty office like the culprit might be hiding underneath a desk having somehow escaped the gatekeeper’s attention.

“It was tucked inside the napkin on my food tray.”

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