Page 23 of City Of Thieves
He laughs, a rich and dangerous sound that’s full of bass and tone. “You’re a mouthy bitch, but I’m guessing you knew that already.”
“In my experience, men only call a woman a ‘bitch’ when they sense that the balance of power isn’t going their way. Shall we get this over with?” I gesture at the waiting private jet with more than a hint of impatience.
He seems larger today, a six-foot three wall of unpredictable, hard muscle, wearing his sin like an open shirt.
On second thought, I preferred it when he hid the worst of him behind his black Brioni.
“Do you have any luggage?”
“Yes, I—” But before I can explain, he’s taking my Louis Vuitton carryall from Andrew’s hands and carting it toward the plane.
He tosses me a look over his shoulder as he passes. “What’s the matter? Never had a man carry your luggage who’snoton your payroll?”
“Of course, I have,” I lie. “I was just thinking how much servitude suits you. If you ever tire of being a criminal, you could always be my butler.”
“Carry the fucking thing yourself, then.”
With that, he dumps my carryall on the dirty asphalt a foot from the aircraft steps. Then, I watch in mounting anger as he climbs them at a leisurely pace and disappears into the cabin.
“Miss Sanders?” Andrew coughs discreetly behind me. “May I take that for you?”
“No, thank you,” I huff, picking up the damn thing myself, before adding under my breath, “I need an object to throw at Mr. Marchesi’s head, should the amount of turbulence disappoint me.”
Navigating the steep metal steps in high heels is no joke, especially when I’m balancing the carryall in one hand and my laptop case in the other. When I enter the cabin, he’s sitting in a plush cream leather seat, his feet resting on a polished mahogany table in front of him, a glass of something strong in his hand, and a glimmer of a smirk on his brutally handsome face.
The rest of the seats are empty.
“Where are yoursoldati?” I ask, choosing the seat furthest away from him, feeling his heavy dark gaze flickering over me constantly. “I was under the impression mobsters hunt in packs.”
“Did your daddy tell you that?” He finally removes his sunglasses and swipes a hand across his thick, five o’clock shadow. “He would know. He was part of Dante Santiago’s crew for long enough. As for me, I prefer my own company.”
“Finally, we have something in common.” I drop into the cream leather with a weary sigh. It’s barely seven a.m., and I’m already feeling exhausted.
“Don’t let it go to your head,dolcezza. I don’t fuck women with hearts colder than their glasses of Chablis.”
“I’m sure I can handlethatparticular disappointment.” I reach down for my laptop bag. Pulling out the auction brochure for tomorrow, I toss it across the aisle at him with far more force than necessary, but of course, he catches it easily. “There’s a condition report on the ‘Atonement’ inside, but I know the team atWeatherby’s. They’ve given us a last-minute appointment tomorrow morning to examine the painting in private before the auction starts… Cold-hearted Women’s privileges,” I add, with a withering look. “If you’re going to drop five million on a painting—”
“You need to at least take it out for dinner and give it a couple of orgasms first,” he finishes.
“I registered with the auction house, too,” I continue, ignoring him. “They weren’t happy with our late application, but I had the connections to make it happen.”
“That’s why I’m paying you the big bucks.”
I study him as he skims the report. “This trail of blood you mentioned yesterday… It must have left quite a stain to warrant this kind of purchase.”
“You have no idea.” Tossing the brochure onto the table, he downs his drink in one. “By the way, we’ve met before, but I take it you don’t remember.”
I frown. “When?”
“Santi Carrera’s Christmas party, years ago.” Dropping his feet, he unfolds his huge frame from the chair and pours himself another whiskey from a glass decanter on the sideboard. “When I say ‘we met,’ I mean I watched from across the room while you teenage-tantrumed all over the host and his guests. You’re a brave woman insulting a cartel kingpin like Carrera.”
With a jolt, I find myself recanting that night, too. My small, safe world had just been sliced in half by a Russian blade. I was barely holding it together enough to talk, let alone make a bad impression on anyone.
“How terrible to be so instantly forgettable.” I flash him a brittle smile. “I’m afraid I don’t remember you at all.”
Now it’s his turn to study me. “The first million was wired to your account the moment you stepped onto this jet. I’ve also redirected the delivery of the portrait painting to your gallery. It should arrive by the end of the week. It seems the price of your soul was relatively cheap, all things considered.”
“Screw you,” I hiss, before I can stop myself.
