Page 7 of Sinful Mafia Santa

“Where are you in a year?” I ask, because that’s the next question in the catechism.

She makes a face. “Opening my first restaurant. For Da’s benefit.”

I know enough about her father to guess what that means—a place for Irish mobsters to eat and drink and plot their next illegal move. She’ll take in a lot of cash and report even more to the taxing authorities, laundering her clan’s dirty money.

“Not much more than a diner,” she says, confirming my guess. “Can’t be, for Da to be happy. But I plan to keep the kitchen in full view.”

“Exhibitionist.”

She snorts. “If the shoe fits…” she says, flexing her ankle.

I recognize the invitation. I’ve been waiting for just that type of opening.

But we’re in the Parlor now. And she’s finished off the better part of two glasses of champagne, on top of a generous pour of Jameson. And I’d rather she not hate me in the morning. There are very good reasons we haven’t spoken in ten years.

So I answer the question she forgot to ask. “In one year…” I say. “The Aces have won the Stanley Cup. Dubois International opens a new hotel on Madison Avenue in the middle of a block I own.”

“And Kynk?” her eyes glinting a wicked invitation.

I take the easy way out. “Kynk is getting ready for the Mistletoe Masquerade. Same as every year.”

She pouts.

In a desperate attempt to get my mind off those lips, off my memory of exactly what they can do, I ask the last question. “Where are you tomorrow?”

She offers a sardonic smile. “Apparently, I’m alone in my suite at the Waldorf, after a day spent studying some of the finest restaurants in New York City.” She eyes me steadily. “But I have until Christmas morning before I have to be back with family in Chicago.”

It’s still not fair for me to bite. Instead, I ask, “Where are you hosting your Christmas Eve party?”

“Party?”

“The one Lasker mentioned. Where you’re serving cranberry tart.”

She laughs. “That wasn’t a party. That was a get-out-of-jail-free card. We set a code, in case I wanted to leave. If I saidtiramisu, he promised to get me out of here.”

“I’m glad you didn’t saytiramisu.”

“So am I,” she says.

I have no business gloating over the fact that she didn’t use a safeword. But I do. And I almost miss her next question.

“And you?” she asks. “Where are you tomorrow?”

“I’m having dinner with a dozen billionaires, along with their wives and girlfriends.”

“As one does,” she teases.

“It’s a…club I belong to. The Diamond Ring. We all keep our investments at a tax haven down in Delaware. The owner sets up monthly meetings—part business, part pleasure. Except tomorrow night is all pleasure—a holiday party with plus ones.”

“Where do a dozen billionaires go for a holiday party?”

“Rockefeller Center, to see the Rockettes. Then a private dining room at Top of the Rock.”

She starts to laugh, but then she says, “Wait. You’re serious.”

“Absolutely.” And then, like I’m a sixteen-year-old kid: “Come with me.”

She snaps her fingers. “Just like that? What about the woman you’ve already invited?”