I get only a glimpse of the woman in the window before the curtains fall back into place and she disappears, but the image of her is seared onto my retinas.
Dark hair, red lips, olive skin.
A black, low-cut dress.
Acres of cleavage.
And eyes that glittered silver in the afternoon sun like the flash of coins at the bottom of a wishing well.
She can’t be Liliana, the lass I’m here to meet. I’ve seen pictures of her. She has a sweet, innocent face. A shy, lovely smile.
The woman in the window looks like she’d only smile if she were slitting your throat.
Mindful of the armed guards, I say in Gaelic to Kieran, “I thought the lass’s mother died?”
Standing beside me, he follows my gaze and looks up at the blank window. “Aye. Why?”
“Who else lives here?”
He shrugs. “Dunno. From the size of the bloody place, probably a thousand people.”
She’s not a servant, that much I know. There wasn’t a hint of servitude in those flashing eyes.
She looked more like a warlord about to lead an army of soldiers into battle.
“This way,” says the guard nearest to me. He nods toward an arched opening in the brick wall that leads from the circular driveway into an interior courtyard.
Dismissing the thought of the mystery woman, I button my suit jacket and follow behind the guard as he leads Kieran and me away from the car. The other guard walks behind us. We’re led through the lushly landscaped courtyard to a set of enormous carved oak doors, flanked on either side by towering marble columns.
The main house looms over us, three sprawling stories of beige limestone with elaborate balustrades and scrolled iron balconies, topped by a line of Roman centurion statues gazing down at us from a ledge on the red-tiled roof.
Inside the main foyer, the décor becomes even more ostentatious.
Naked cherubs frolic with hairy satyrs and woodland nymphs in colorful frescoes on the walls. Instead of one drop-crystal chandelier overhead, there are three. The floor is black marble, the carved mahogany furniture is edged in gilt, and my eyes are starting to water from the kaleidoscope glare of stained-glass windows.
Under his breath, Kieran says, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Looks like Liberace hurled his lunch all over the bloody place.”
He’s right. It’s fucking awful.
I have to force myself not to turn around and walk out.
“Ah, Mr. Quinn!”
I turn to my right. A man approaches with his hands spread open in greeting.
He’s fit, of average height, and somewhere around forty. His dark hair is slicked back with pomade. Wearing a navy-blue pinstripe suit I can tell is custom made, a powder-blue tie with a diamond tie pin, a chunky diamond watch, and a gold pinky ring on each hand, he oozes wealth, privilege, and power.
His cologne reaches me before he does.
His smile is blinding.
I hate him on sight.
“Mr. Caruso, I presume.”
He grabs one of my hands in both of his and pumps it up and down like he’s a political candidate campaigning for my vote.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Welcome to my home.”
“Thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.”
He hasn’t stopped grinning or shaking my hand.
Ten more seconds of this shite, and I’ll break those Chiclets teeth of his.
“This is my associate, Mr. Byrne.” I extract my hand from Caruso’s death grip and gesture to Kieran, who inclines his head respectfully.
“Sir.”
“Mr. Byrne, welcome. And please, both of you, call me Gianni. I prefer if we’re all on a first-name basis, don’t you?”
I’d rather blind myself with acid, you wanker.
Kieran politely offers his name. I offer nothing. There’s an awkward pause while Caruso waits, but he gets the hint and suggests we retire to his study to speak in private.
After what feels like a death march through miles of echoing corridors, we arrive at the study. It’s probably larger than the law library at Notre Dame. We sit across from Caruso in a pair of leather chairs so uncomfortable, they had to be designed by sadists.
I haven’t been here ten minutes, and I’m already regretting the fuck out of this.
Until she walks in the door.
Dark hair, red lips, olive skin.
A black, low-cut dress.
Acres of cleavage.
Not only cleavage, but long legs and an hourglass figure that would make any man stupid with lust.
If he wasn’t too busy being turned to stone by the ice in her eyes, that is.
I’ve never seen an attractive serial killer, but I bet this is exactly what she’d look like.
“Mr. Quinn, Kieran,” says Caruso, gesturing to each of us in turn, “this is my sister, Reyna.”
I’m on my feet before I consciously make the decision to rise. Kieran stands, too, murmuring a greeting.
Reyna returns his hello and smiles at him, but when she turns her gaze to me, her smile dies.
She looks me dead in the eye and says, “Good afternoon, Mr. Quinn.”
It sounds like I’m going to eat your spleen for supper.
I’m not sure whether to laugh or ask what her bloody problem is, but go with a neutral greeting instead.
“Good afternoon to you, Ms. Caruso.”
My gaze drops to the ring finger of her left hand. It’s encircled by a small black tattoo, some wording in cursive too tiny to read from where I’m standing. “Or is it Mrs. something?”
I glance back up at her face to find her stony gaze turned to withering heat.
It’s a look that could melt steel. I’ve never seen such hot, wordless fury. It makes the burning lakes of fire in the deepest pits of hell look like cozy bubble baths in comparison.
All that heat and hate she’s blasting at me goes straight to my dick, which throbs in excitement.
Figures. The fucker only ever wants what he can’t have.
When she doesn’t answer my question long enough to make it uncomfortable, her brother answers for her.
“My sister is a widow.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Like a switch has been thrown, all the heat in her eyes cools to ice. “Thank you.”
She turns and walks stiffly to the windows behind her brother’s desk, where she gazes out with her arms folded over her chest, sending a wintry chill over the courtyard below.
I’m surprised the windowpanes don’t crackle with frost from her nearness.
Kieran and I share a look, then take our seats again.
Caruso says, “May I offer you a drink, gentlemen?”
Kieran declines. But I think I’m going to need liquid fortification to get through this meeting, so I accept.
From a bottom desk drawer, Caruso removes two cut crystal glasses and a carafe of ruby-colored liquor I assume is wine. By the time I’ve swallowed a mouthful of the bitter shite, it’s too late.
It sears a path down my windpipe, singeing all my nose hairs in its wake.
Caruso smiles at me with toothy anticipation. “It’s Campari. You’ve had it before?”
A shake of my head is all I can manage. If I tried to speak, I’d retch.
Over her shoulder, Reyna throws me a glance. She sees the look of disgust on my face and quickly turns back to the window, but not before she can hide her small, satisfied smile.
Maybe I’ll burn the house down after I marry the daughter. The neighbors would thank me, no doubt.
Caruso’s still rattling on about the Campari, how it’s famous in Italy, blah blah fucking blah, but I interrupt him to ask when I’ll meet Liliana.
“Oh. Yes. Liliana.”
For a moment, he looks disoriented, like he lost the plot. But he pulls himself together and plasters on his shite-eating grin again. “She’ll be right down.”
He turns slightly toward Reyna for confirmation.
She remains silent but nods.
In his smarmy politician’s way, Caruso says, “In the meantime, Mr. Quinn, allow me to extend my gratitude to both you and Mr. O’Donnell for the visit. I’m looking forward to getting to know both of you better as we join our families—”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I interrupt, setting the glass of foul liquid onto his desk. “After I meet your daughter, we’ll have plenty of time to talk about the future. As of right now, this deal hasn’t been inked.”
“Yes, of course,” he says, his voice subdued. “Please forgive me.”
Reyna turns from the window again, this time to send her brother an outraged, tight-lipped glare.
She’s thinking he’s a pussy for acting so weak. In his own bloody house, no less.
She’s right.
I rise from my chair, gazing at her. “Actually, I’d like to speak with your sister first for a few minutes. Alone.”
Caruso looks startled by the request.
Reyna looks like she’s wondering where the nearest hatchet is so she can bury it in my skull.
I have no idea why this woman hates me so much, but it’s starting to get annoying.
Regardless of what my dick thinks about her, she’s pissing me off.
Kieran stands, already knowing my request will be granted. Caruso follows, sending a nervous look in Reyna’s direction.
“Certainly. We’ll give you a moment. Kieran, why don’t I show you my collection of Fabergé eggs?”
With a straight face, Kieran says, “Can’t think of anything better, mate.”
They leave. As soon as the door closes behind them, I look at Reyna. “All right. You’ve obviously got something to say to me. Say it.”
She turns from the window, blinking. “I’m sorry, I have no idea what you mean.”
Her hand rests at the base of her throat. Her eyes are wide and guileless. She’s the picture of innocence, and she’s entirely full of shite.
I say, “Too late, woman. I’ve already seen the swamp witch you’re trying to hide under that human skin suit you’re wearing.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re not as good an actress as you think.”
She stares at me in blistering silence for a few seconds, then says icily, “Number one: don’t call me woman like it’s a pejorative. It’s not. Number two: if you’re not bright enough to know what the word pejorative means, ask your sidekick. He seems like he might have actually read a book once. Number three—”
“Will this take long? I’ve got a meeting to get through.”
Her nostrils flare. Her lips thin. Her body trembles with impotent fury, and I think I’m starting to have fun.
She says tightly, “Number three: I have nothing to say to you.”
“No?” I let my gaze travel the length of her body, down and back up again, relishing every dangerous curve. “Because it bloody sure seems like you do.”
With what appears to be a huge effort of will, Reyna holds back whatever vitriol is burning the tip of her tongue. She smooths a hand over her dark hair, straightens her shoulders, and forces a tight smile.
“If you insist.”
“I do.”
“But it won’t be pleasant.”
“I doubt you’re capable of pleasantries, wee viper.”
Her eyes flash. “Insulting me won’t win you any points.”
“I’m not the one here who needs to win points.”
That makes her even angrier. Her cheeks turn scarlet. “Why are you deliberately baiting me?”
“Because you’re better than your brother,” I say, holding her infuriated gaze. “You don’t need to pretend to be something you’re not. Now talk to me. I need to know why you’re so angry, and I won’t get the truth from him.”
She’s taken aback by the compliment and by my forthrightness, both of which she obviously wasn’t expecting.
I get the feeling there isn’t much she doesn’t anticipate, so that’s gratifying.
When she doesn’t speak for too long, I prompt, “You don’t like that I’m Irish.”
“I’m not that petty or prejudiced,” she says crossly. “I don’t judge people by where they were born.”
The way she says it, I believe her. She’s genuinely insulted by the suggestion.
Which is interesting, considering most of her kin would rather be burned alive than befriend an Irishman.
Our families might do business together when it suits us, but it’s a point of pride that we hate each other’s guts.
“So what, then?”
She gazes at me in silence, measuring me up. Then she shakes her head.
“You know I can’t possibly be honest with you. There’s too much at stake for my family.”
“There’s too much at stake if you’re not honest with me.”
“Such as?”
“I’ll walk out of here without meeting Liliana and without looking back, because there are plenty of other lasses in the Cosa Nostra who’ll happily spread their legs for me and gain advantage for their families if she doesn’t.”
She stares at me. Her eyes are an unusual color, a pale greenish-gray, like a mermaid might have.
On a woman without the urge to murder me and bury my dismembered body in a shallow grave, they could be mesmerizing.
“I hate you for saying that.”
“Add it to your list.”
My smirk is the thing that finally breaks her.
“Fine. You want the truth? I’ll give it to you. My niece is a good girl. She deserves so much better than to be sold off to the highest bidder without a damn say in the matter. She deserves so much better than a man who’d marry for money, position, or power. She deserves to be loved, cherished, and respected for everything she is. What she doesn’t deserve is to not have a voice. Or a choice. Or a life of her own!”
“What makes you assume she won’t have a life of her own if we’re married?”
Reyna blinks. Once. Slowly. As if what I’ve just said is the stupidest thing she’s ever heard.
“Or that I wouldn’t respect her?”
She quirks her lips. “Now you’re toying with me, Mr. Quinn.”
“Spider.”
After a beat of confusion, she says, “Pardon?”
“Call me Spider.”
“Why on earth would I do that?”
“Because it’s my name.”
She laughs. It’s a lovely sound. It also seems to surprise her, because she stops laughing abruptly, looking as if she has no idea how she allowed something so pleasant to pass her lips.
“Your name is…Spider?”
“Aye.”
“Did your mother hate you?”
“No.”
“But she named you after an insect?”
“It’s a nickname. And spiders aren’t insects.”
She furrows her brows and stares at me.
“Why are you gaping at me like I’ve got a horn growing between my eyes?”
“Because I think I must’ve fallen out of bed this morning and gotten a concussion.”
I chuckle. “That would explain why you’re eatin’ the head off me.”
She opens her mouth to say something, but closes it again.
“Oh, look. The wee viper lost her words. Bet that doesn’t happen but once in a donkey’s years.”
Through gritted teeth, she says, “If you’d speak English instead of idiot, we wouldn’t be having this problem.”
“Ooo, the fangs are out.”
Her mermaid eyes glitter with malice. “Stop. Mocking. Me.”
“Or what? You’ll bury that letter opener in my chest?”
Her gaze slices to the blotter on her brother’s desk, then back to me. The way her lips turn up at the corners, I can tell she’s relishing the idea of stabbing me.
“Have a go. I’m in the mood for a good laugh.”
“You wouldn’t be laughing for long. I think this meeting is over.”
“Sorry to break it to you, lass, but you’re not the one in charge here.”
That really gets her goat. A flush of red rises up her neck to merge with the burn in her cheeks. She says stiffly, “We obviously have nothing more to say to one another.”
“Now that’s the silliest thing you’ve said since you walked in.”
“If you don’t stop smirking at me, I won’t be responsible for what happens.”
I cock my head and consider her. “It’s men in general, is that it? You hate men.”
Her evil smile would look right at home on Satan himself. “Only a deserving few.”
I know we could go back and forth like this until hell freezes over, so I decide to get to the point.
“I admire your loyalty to your niece, Ms. Caruso, but I want a wife, not a slave. If Liliana and I marry, she can do as she likes, as long as it doesn’t interfere with my business or reflect badly on me.”
She studies me, no doubt trying to decide if I’m lying. Then in a challenging tone, she says, “She could go to college?”
That surprises me. “Does she want to go to college?”
“She was accepted at Wellesley. It’s an all-girls school—”
“I know what it is.”
“—so you wouldn’t have to worry about her being around other boys.”
My gaze drops to her mouth. Her full, lush, scarlet mouth, which seems mainly to be used for hurling insults.
Pity. It would look beautiful stretched around the head of a stiff cock.
I say softly, “I’m not a boy.”
When I lift my gaze to hers again, she looks flustered, but as if she’s trying not to show it.
“What else? Might as well air all the dirty laundry while we’re at it.”
“All right, then. Do you drink?”
“Not to excess, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Do you have a temper?”
“All men have tempers.”
She scoffs. “Don’t I know it. What I mean is are you violent?”
“I’m second-in-command of the Irish Mob. What do you think?”
She swallows, glances away, then meets my gaze again. She moistens her lips. “I…I meant with women.”
And here we have it.
I glance down at her left hand, at the circle of black ink on her ring finger, and finally understand what this inquisition is all about.
My voice low, I say, “I’m not your dead husband.”
She starts as if she got an electrical shock. Her eyes widen. She steps back, then catches herself and stands in place, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“That’s the third time you’ve lied to me, wee viper. Don’t do it again.”
Our held gazes feel electrified, as if there’s an invisible wire connecting us, sending bolts of energy snapping back and forth on a loop. We stare at each other in crackling silence while my dick stiffens and the vein on the side of her neck throbs.
In a carefully controlled, freezingly polite tone, she says, “I don’t take orders, Mr. Quinn. I also don’t address grown men by ridiculous nicknames, nor do I appreciate being given one. Though I have to admit the ‘viper’ is accurate, but the ‘wee’ is completely off mark. I’m as big as they come.”
She turns and walks away, hips swaying. At the door, she stops and turns back to me. When she smiles, those mermaid eyes of hers glitter as icy cold as diamonds.
“You should also keep in mind that vipers are venomous…and they eat spiders for lunch.”
She opens the door and walks through it with her head held high, leaving me standing alone in the study.
Alone and grinning.
For the first time since entering the house, I’m glad I came.
