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He grins. “No men?”

“Not funny.”

“You know why?”

“Cal—”

“They’re staring atyou.” He moves my hand under the table and places it on his hardening cock, the move sending a thrill tumbling through me. “What do you think of this place?”

“The food’s good.”

“Not too pretentious.”

“Seasonal,” I say, pleased he’s asking my opinion. “And I bet it’s farm to table.”

“Then I’ll buy it for you.” He shakes his head. “Invest, be a partner. The chef’s talented and wants to have her own place, but the current big investor is too hands on.”

“And you?”

“I need some legit businesses, and this is a good one.” He removes my hand and pushes the mousse at me. “Eat up, and we’ll go to the next place.”

So I do, and when I’m done, he pays the check, leaving an outrageous sum on the table for a tip and we head out.

Clubs aren’t really my thing, but this is one of the classier clubs I’ve been to. It’s sophisticated and understated, a playground for the elite.

“I’m definitely buying this place,” he says as we go upstairs where it’s more of a VIP vibe.

He goes to the bar to get us drinks. The pulsing electronica pounds through my chest, vibrating the floor beneath my feet. When he comes back and hands memy drink, a man is with him.

“Dean, my wife, Lucie. Lucie, Dean. He’s the current owner.”

I smile and nod as Dean does the same.

“If you both follow me, I’ll take you to the most interesting part.” Dean gestures to where a big bouncer-type guy stands, and behind him is an unassuming staircase. He leads us up to another level, and at the top, he pushes open a glass door. It’s much quieter in here, and there’s a lot of smoke clouding the space.

Callahan lights up. “Give me a minute.” He motions for me to sit as he chats quietly with Dean. I don’t listen to the conversation. It’s boring and money oriented. I sip the Dubious Joy he handed me downstairs and close my eyes, losing myself in the lounge style music.

But the longer I sit, the more acutely aware I become that I’m being watched. My eyes float open, and there’s a man now sitting on my right side, maybe in his thirties with slicked-back dirty-blond hair and the kind of smile you could grease a pig with. “Ms. de Rosa.”

“Mrs. Murphy.”

His smile gets broader and he leans close. “I was at your wedding. You don’t know me. I’m George Fabiani. Your father has a dislike of my family and our Russian ties, but we do business. Maybe you and I can do business. Special business.”

He slips a hand along my leg, pushing up my skirt. I’m about to slap him away when he’s suddenly yanked out of his seat.

Before I can even gasp, Callahan has him by the throat, his feet off the ground. “Tell me why I shouldn’t fucking kill you right here and now for touching what’s mine.”

TWENTY-FIVE

callahan

The fury wrapstight around my insides, egging me on to tear this fucker’s head off his squirming body. I don’t know who the fuck he is, this asshole who dared touch my wife. I don’t know him personally, anyway. I know he’s mafia but not from a family I’m planning on doing business with.

“Well?” I hiss, aware we’re being watched, not that I give a fuck.

“Callahan, stop.”

Her voice is like cool nectar that whispers through me, but I don’t let up. I can see this guy’s a piece of shit, the type who doesn’t respect, that steals and touches out of turn. “It’s not that you put your hand on her, it’s how you did it, your intent, scumbag. That’s what you deserve to be punished for.”