Page 35 of Tide of Treason
While Kayla bent to collect her stilettos, I pulled my phone out, needing a distraction before I did something stupider than I already had. Notifications lit up the screen: shipment cleared Veracruz, two missed calls from Tadeo, Elara asking if I’d done the breathing exercises. And a tab I’d left open since the night I first met Kayla Sforza.
The phonetics had nagged me awake more nights than I’d admit. Dante’s smug face tonight—Mr. “very European”—had yanked the thread loose again.
I hit search.
Google: ragazzo stupendo meaning?
The carousel lights flickered gold over the screen, over the sudden rush in my chest.
Result: “wonderful boy,” “gorgeous boy,” colloquial—“stunning guy.”
9 | Kayla
29 years old
Present day
Baccarat tables hadbeen arranged at the perfect feng shui angle for optimal money laundering, which was, in my opinion, a testament to Papà’s commitment to both financial crime and spiritual balance. As the car idled out the casino’s underground parking lot, I considered the irony. Gamblers thought they were testing fate, but really, the house always won. And by house, I meant me.
Black-market art sales masquerading as charity auctions. A private poker table where the buy-in was a human kidney, give or take a spleen. A VIP lounge where a senator was currently doing blow off a model’s ass, discussing tax loopholes between lines. Efficient. Beautiful.
My phone vibrated against my palm. I glanced down atthe message, the glow of the screen cutting through the dark interior of the vehicle.
Vito:You’re gonna want to see this.
I clicked the side button and let the screen fade back to black, but whatever it was had been important enough for Vito to break my no-texting-during-events rule. Beside me, Lucius exhaled a measured sigh, a whisper of tension tracing my spine.
“Relax,” I murmured, sliding my phone into the clutch. “I’ll excrete your asset in forty-eight hours, tops.”
His gaze slanted to mine, half-lidded. “You know, I have access to every sanitation truck in this city. All it would take is one phone call for you to become tomorrow’s urban legend.”
I turned my head just in time to catch the slow drag of his thumb over his mouth, a smear of red staining his skin. My red.
“And then I’ll have your stomach pumped for good measure,” he added.
Was I obligated to return his ring? Technically, it was marital property—mine by proxy. However, if we were operating under that logic, so was the rest of him.
I pasted my gaze to the window, watching the neon-stained streets slide past, giving the impression that nothing he could say or do had ruffled me. But something had, something that sent a hot coil of guilt into my stomach. It was the kiss, I mused, and yet . . . I wasn’t sorry.
I’d let him do a lot worse than smear my lipstick.
A lot better, too.
The cousins were handling a minor inconvenience inthe security room. A hedge fund heir had lost five figures at the blackjack table and tried to leverage his last name as collateral. Vito had texted me, so I already knew how this would go. The cameras would catch the man being escorted through the VIP entrance, perfectly intact, still clutching the remnants of his dignity. But in thirty minutes, he’d be getting the “exclusive tour” of a warehouse on the outskirts of Long Island, where he’d learn how many fingers he could live without.
“You’re smiling,” Lucius said, the deepness of his voice dragging me back.
“I like when things run smoothly.”
“Hmm.” He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, casting me a slow, sidelong glance. “How’s your gag reflex?”
“Stronger than your self-control, apparently.”
“Think if I shoved my dick down your throat, you’d cough up my wedding ring?”
I kept my expression carefully blank and pulled a lip gloss out of the clutch. Glutton for punishment, I reapplied the color so more of it landed on my tongue than my lips. Lucius’s gaze darkened to a dangerous glint that burned through the space between us, so hot I felt it lick between my legs.
I met him with a flat look, all cool and unreadable. “I don’t know, Lucius. Depends. You want it express shipped back to you? FedEx has overnight delivery, but I hear the tracking is shit. Might end up in a warehouse somewhere next to a crate of stolen Rembrandts and a dismembered accountant who thought he could cook my books. Priority shipping mightbe a safer bet, but then again”—I dragged a slow look down his chest, lingering where his belt sat low on his hips—“if you’re in such a hurry, you could just fish it out yourself. Might be messy, though. Hope you’re not squeamish.”
