And yet he insisted on fighting them, all for me.
I didn’t understand it. We barely knew each other, though the way he looked at me, the way he touched me—
It made me shiver.
Like I was a prize.
Or worse, like I was something he worshiped.
“Shit,” I said softly, trying to ignore the spike of pleasure I felt at the thought of him kneeling down in front of me, then got up and got dressed.
We drove over in silence. Luke’s apprehension radiated off him in sharp waves and I didn’t want to push him when he clearly didn’t want to talk. He drove laps around Rittenhouse and made multiple phone calls to his guys, going over positioning and strategy, talking contingencies and back-up plans. In the end, he parked a few blocks away, shoved a gun into his waistband, then got out.
I followed him onto the sidewalk. “Mike Tyson once said something like, ‘Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.’ I think about that a lot whenever we go to something like this.” He walked with his head up, his eyes scanning the block in front us, and didn’t glance down at me.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I think he’s saying you just have to go get it done. You can plan all you want, but as soon as the shit really starts, all those plans disappear.”
“Then why bother planning?”
He let out a breath. “The plans help sometimes, but more often than that, I think they’re an exercise in mentally preparing for what’s about to happen. When the fighting starts, when the shooting starts, you’ve got to be ready to deal with it emotionally. You can’t freak out and freeze or do something stupid out of fear. I think planning helps ease some of that tension.”
I knew what he meant just from these past few days. My hands shook and my stomach felt like a mess—but he seemed completely at ease like we were on some gentle stroll down the block. Planning kept him centered, while I felt like I was getting punched in the mouth over and over again.
Rittenhouse Park was a small, block-sized oasis in the middle of the most crowded and expensive section in the city. Rows of trees ringed a fenced lining a tangle of crisscrossing paths. Benches were placed evenly all around the park, and half the seats were taken up, while other folks sat on the edge of a big bubbling fountain, and several buskers juggled or played guitar for small crowds. Young people sat on blankets on the grass in the sun, while locals walked their fluffy little dogs on short leashes through the crowds.
Luke reached out and took my arm suddenly. He held me gently but firmly and pulled me closer as he steered me from the packed central section along a shady side path. He headed toward a man sitting alone on a bench wearing a dark suit and reading the Philadelphia Inquirer. He looked up as we approached, smiled a charming and easy grin, and put the paper away.
“It’s good to see you again, Luke,” the man said.
“Park,” Luke said, nodding, but kept a respectful distance. “This is Cara.”
“Nice to meet you, Cara.” Parked showed his teeth in a wide smile—they were perfectly straight and white. He looked like an underwear model, with just the right amount of stubble on his handsome chin and a gleam in his too-blue eyes.
“I’m surprised they sent you,” Luke said, “considering we have a friendly relationship.”
“I think that’s exactly why my Don sent me.” Park patted the bench next to him. “Take a seat, let’s talk. No bullshit, I promise we’re not here for that.”
Luke hesitated another second before sitting down. The bench was divided into three sections by two thick black iron armrests. I took the far spot, away from Park, while Luke sat in the middle.
“Forgive me for being skeptical,” Luke said. “Your family’s not exactly known for being kind to those that go against them.”
“Well, you’re a known entity, and besides, we’re not so far gone that we can’t at least have a discussion before trying to kill you.” Another charming smile, so at odds with his words. “But you know how my Don can be, so don’t forget who you’re dealing with.”
Luke grunted in reply. “What do your people want, Park?”
He spread his hands happily. “It’s really simple. My Don wants the dossier and he wants the girl. No offense, Cara, I’m sure you’re a perfectly fine person, but unfortunately your father deeply fucked up and it seems like you’re on the hook for his mistake.”
I stared down at my feet, unable to meet his piercing, gleaming smile, like he was enjoying himself while I thought I might throw up.
Some small part of me thought the Lionettis would let me go. I had almost nothing to do with all of this—my father was involved, but I didn’t control my father. He did whatever he wanted, whether I liked it or not, and so often I was stuck cleaning up his mess afterward. I hated him for doing this to me, for putting me in this position.