Page 105 of Scorned Beauty
“A woman-empowered organization. I like it.”
“So…?” Bianca asked. She was obviously impatient. In fact, she seemed to be squirming in her seat.
“What’s up with you?” I asked.
“Just say yes, already,” she griped while Sera laughed.
“I feel like there’s a catch.” My voice turned wary.
Sera glared at Bianca. “Now you’ve done it.”
“I’ll do it, but on a provisionary basis. If there’s something that’s not working, I can back out.”
“I don’t think the dons would want you to leave a project in the middle,” Sera said.
“We can do this in phases,” I said. “Improve resident care first.”
“That seems fair,” Sera agreed.
“So that’s a yes?” Bianca asked.
Hmm…she was really pushy.
I grinned at her. “That’s a yes.”
She clapped her hands and gave a small squeal of delight. Sometimes I forgot that despite being married to one of the scariest MOFOs in New York, Bianca was younger than me at barely twenty-five. She dug into her purse and handed me two cards. Two black cards. Credit cards?
One bore only a chip. And the other one had my name.
“What are these?”
“This…” She pushed the no-name one forward. “Is for anything you need to purchase for project implementation. Miss Sheila will have her own account, too. This one with your name…” She slid the other one beside the first black card. “Is for your personal expenses related to the running of the project.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Personal expenses.”
“You’ll be required to attend benefit and charity galas. Hire limos. You can purchase your own vehicle with it, too.”
Fucking Dom.
“Is this charged to Dom’s account or Bowmans Inc.’s” I tapped on the card with my name.
Bianca blew out a breath. “Ugh, why do you have to be so picky? Dom’s.”
Both women watched me like I was about to bolt, but I was suddenly empowered to change tactics. I grabbed both cards. “You can tell your cousin that he’s going to regret giving me his card.”
Sera laughed. “Attagirl.”
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
Dom
“I don’t knowwhere Grigori or Anton is,” Boris cried. He was one of Grigori’s crew who’d been hiding in Harlem. One of Sandro’s soldiers tipped us off. His face was a map of bruises. Sandro had already done a number on him.
We were in the basement of a laundromat. Boris was tied to a chair and, besides the bruises on his body, he was missing a few fingernails. I hadn’t been the dispenser of hurt in an interrogation in a long time. Frequently I left it to my underboss, Sonny, to oversee, but this time he was staying in the background, letting me do the honors.
Because this was personal. Very personal.
