“She’s here?” I asked, frowning. “Right now?”
“Bea put her in the game room,” Roy said. “That okay with you? Meeting your future wife for the first time’s a big deal. You’d have a right to be nervous.”
I finished my whiskey, which made Roy grin, and stood up. I glared at him, annoyed to have to jump through this goddamn hoop to make this bastard loyal. He should’ve fallen into line from the start, but this was the mafia. I couldn’t simply take over without proving myself, despite everything I had already done for this family, all the men I killed, the drugs I sold, the deals I made, none of it mattered.
I was the Don and I had to act like it.
“Lead the way,” I said.
Roy took me out into the hall. I knew this house like I knew my own body, but it felt strange to me all of a sudden. Maybe because I owned it, and I could change it at will. Yet I kept it the same, and the quiet, brooding wealth of it seemed oppressive.
I stepped past him when we reached the door to the game room. “Stay here,” I said. “I won’t be long.”
“Take all the time you need, Don Valentino,” Roy said and leaned up against the wall with a huff. “She’s your problem now.”
I opened the door and stepped inside.
The game room was relatively modest by my father’s standards. Two pool tables, a bar on the right side of the room, and a big screen TV hanging above a working fireplace. The carpet was green and lush, and the walls were covered in sports memorabilia. My father loved Philadelphia teams, and he had an admittedly impressive collection of signed jerseys framed and hung.
The girl stood next to the bar looking at the bottles pensively. I felt rooted in place like my shoes were covered in tacky glue. She was small with deeply black hair and pale skin. She wore tight jeans and a dark blue sweater that hung off her body in a loose wave. Her hair was down around her shoulders, and when she turned to look at me, I felt a pang of excitement roll down my spine.
Bright green eyes, full lips, sculpted eyebrows, short, round nose, sharp jaw.
She was pretty, very fucking pretty.
Her eyebrows knit down as she glared at me like she wanted to ram me through with a pool cue and skewer me against the wall.
“You must be Dean,” she said. “Whatever my uncle offered, you should know that I’m not interested.”
That snapped me out of it. I took a step closer, head tilted. I saw a distant family resemblance in the hair and maybe the shape of her chin, but otherwise she looked nothing like her uncle. The girl was curvy, wide hips, gorgeous chest, and a mouth that made me want to sacrifice a lamb.
“What’s your name?” I asked. “You know me, but I don’t know you.”
“Maggie,” she said. “Everyone calls me Mags.”
“All right, Mags,” I said. “What do you think your uncle told me?”
Her jaw worked. “He’s got some outdated notions about how relationships work,” she said. “He thinks I’m cattle. Like he can bring me to market and sell me.”
I walked closer. She didn’t move, her side leaned up against the bar, but she watched me warily. I stopped a few feet away.
“And you’re not for sale,” I said.
“No,” she said, “I’m not for sale.”
“That’s good to know,” I said.
I couldn’t believe I’d never seen her before—but admittedly, I was never paying much attention to Roy’s family. He had six brothers and three sisters, and they all had their own kids, so it was hard to keep up. It was possible I’d met Mags before, but she could’ve been too young to remember.
She wasn’t too young anymore. I pegged her at early twenties, no older than twenty-five at most. Ten years younger than me.
“I know what’s going on,” she said, sounding more annoyed. “I know I should say that I’m sorry your dad died and all that, but I’m not.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. That only made her frown deeper, but goddamn, what an insane thing to say. I was a mafia boss and I just lost my old man, and the girl had the nerve to say she didn’t give a shit.
She was either stupid or very brave, or maybe both.
“I’m not sorry either,” I said, still smiling, unable to help myself. “He was a real piece of shit.”
“You’re all the same, you know,” she said, raising her chin with false bravado, but it was cute. “My dad, your dad, Uncle Roy, the rest of them. They’re all the fucking same.” Her jaw worked again and I could see the anger radiating off her like waves off hot pavement.
“You think so?” I asked. “I don’t think you know me at all. In fact, I think you’d be pleasantly surprised if you decided that you really were for sale.”