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30
THE MARTINI SHOT
Is it done?”
“Yes. She’s on her way back. The plane lands at Teterboro in half an hour.”
“Good. And the apartment?”
“The tech guys are setting up as we speak. They’ll have to work through the night.”
“I want it done by morning, Fionnella. Double their pay if you have to.”
“I already did. And added a little sweetener on top because of the back-to-back work on the other project.”
I tuck the phone against my neck and do up the buttons of my black shirt. “You have my undying gratitude. You know that, of course.”
She sighs. “I would prefer waking up without more grey hairs than I go to sleep with. And please don’t tell me it suits me. No woman likes to hear that,” she says crisply.
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Not that I don’t think it though.”
She chuckles. “You were always too smooth for your own good. Knew it right from the moment I met you.”
We both pause a couple of beats, the circumstances of our meeting temporarily stalling conversation. I have no doubt my life would be on the same course without meeting Fionnella Smith. But I’m aware the path I’ve taken has been less…lonely with her on board.
“We’re almost there, Nella,” I murmur.
Her breath catches on a hook of suppressed pain. Then she clears her throat briskly. “Yes. Okay.”
I snap out my sleeve before I start to fold it back onto my forearm. “So, did you meet any resistance?”
“You mean was she full of her usual twenty questions?”
“Hmm.”
“Of course, she was. You just had to confuse the hell out of the girl by paying her double for one night, didn’t you? Why the hell would you do that?”
Because I was rough with her. Because I loved every second of taking her ass. Becauseshe was so fucking tight my cock still bears strangle marks.
“Was it not well received?”
“Was the bubonic plague well received? You’d think you’d sent her a case of anthrax instead of an extra hundred grand. She wants to know why, and I don’t think she’ll let it go. I spent the better part of an hour yesterday fielding her questions. So you better find a damn good reason for going off script.”
My blood thrums through my veins at the thought of going head to head with my firecracker. “I’ll take care of it.”
Fionnella exhales. “Thanks.” The response is a touch weary. She’s been waiting as long as I have for this to end. If I had a functioning heart, it would go out to her. All I can promise is the retribution that has been over a decade in coming. “I’ll be in touch when the place is all set.”
I hang up and finish dressing. The all-black attire cements my mood, and I firmly place the past weekend’s activities in a compartmentalized box by the time I gun the engine of my rarely used, nondescript Ford Mustang out of the underground garage and onto the street.
The brownstone in Brooklyn is another one I own, along with the identical unoccupied properties on either side of it. But these ones don’t come under the Blackwood umbrella. They’re untraceable purchases, procured through two-dozen shell companies. I drive past the houses and park at the end of the street. I would’ve preferred to park on another block altogether but I can’t risk being recognized.
I wait until I’m sure there’s no one around, and climb the steps to the brownstone. I let myself in and lock the door behind me. Unlike most of my other properties, this house is fully decorated. Artistic Tiffany floor lamps light the wide hallway, but the custom designed living room and kitchen are dark.
Music strains through the house from the single bedroom upstairs. I had the upstairs of the house modified to a specific layout, one that announced the space as fit for only one purpose.
The giving of pleasure.
I stride up the stairs in measured steps. Sultry laughter designed to entice weaves through the air as I enter the empty bedroom. The bed, the center of attention in the vast space, is emperor-sized, custom built to accommodate multiple partners. Bespoke sheets and linens drape the bed and weave around the four posts, expertly intertwined with soft lighting. In one corner, a spank bench waits decadently next to an elevated silver bucket holding three bottles of vintage champagne. I take it all in with dark satisfaction, sliding my hands into my pockets as I cross the room to lean in the bathroom doorway.