Page 8 of Sinful Mafia Santa

“There isn’t any woman. I was going alone.”

“And your tax-haven owner will just accept some plus one he’s never met, showing up at the last minute.”

“Absolutely.”

She wants to believe me. She doesn’t.

I take her hand, lacing my fingers with hers. I realize I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time. “We both know why you’re here this weekend. We both miss him. Come to the show tomorrow night. Create one new memory for the Christmas season.”

A tremor ripples across her belly. She’s close enough that Icould slip my fingers beneath the lace band of her panties. I could have that bra off with one quick twist of my wrist.

I can have her tonight. I know that. But I also know I want more.

I meet her gaze—no more words, no more deflection. She’s the one who has to decide.

“Yes,” she finally says, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath. “Yes, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

3

AERYN

When I lived in New York and attended classes at the New York Culinary Institute, I spent every spare moment in a restaurant. Morning, noon, and night, I explored new-to-me food. There was always a new flavor to try, another dish to discover.

I never thought about all the other things New York City had to offer. I skipped a visit to the Statue of Liberty. I never went to the top of the Empire State Building. I didn’t set foot inside the Metropolitan Museum of Art, or the Guggenheim, or the Whitney. I certainly didn’t make time for anything as frivolous as the precision dancing of the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall.

I was a feckin’ eejit.

The Christmas show is glorious. Thirty-six women fill the stage for dance number after dance number. They tell the Christmas story, complete with live animals. They bring full-size tourist buses on stage, dancing on the steps and in the windows.They dress as identical tin soldiers, turning in military-sharp lines until they collapse in breathtaking slow motion. The last number is one of their famous kicklines, their ankles stretching eyebrow-high as the audience roars with applause.

I join the standing ovation, clapping until my palms sting. “That was incredible!” I say, clutching Gage’s arm as the house lights finally come up.

His smile is indulgent. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“I loved it!”

He shakes his head. “That’s not the way we do things here in New York. You never want to seemtooenthusiastic.”

I try to give him a disapproving glare. “But if Iamenthusiastic?—”

“Let’s go, motherf—” Trap Prince starts to say. He’s our host for the evening, the billionaire in charge of all the other billionaires. I’ve known him for little more than two hours, and I’ve already learned that swearing comes more easily to him than breathing.

But his fiancée, Alix, cuts him off with a sharp elbow to his ribs. “Look at that sweet dress,” she says, nodding toward a little girl dressed in Christmas velvet. The child’s mother gives Alix an approving nod.

“Let’s go,friends,” Trap corrects himself with a pained smile. “They’re expecting us upstairs for dinner in fifteen minutes.”

Several people in our party laugh. One man—I think Gage said he’s in insurance—fakes a sneeze that sounds suspiciously like the wordwhipped.Alix just clutches Trap’s arm and cuddles close to his side. He makes a show of raising his eyebrows in a silent response that stirs something deep beneath my belly. Alix blushes.

Our group follows Trap up the aisle and across the theater lobby. He’s a natural leader—broad-shouldered and loud-voiced, with an intensity that makes me understand why a dozen captains of industry have chosen to do business with him.

Not just industry—organized crime, too.

I didn’t get a chance to speak with Braiden Kelly—the captain of Philadelphia’s Irish mob—before the show began. Gage and I slipped into our seats just as the theater lights dimmed. That was my fault; I kept Gage waiting almost half an hour in the Waldorf lobby as I changed outfits again and again and again.

Da always says I’ll be late to my own funeral. I say that’s my right, growing up the only girl in a regular gang of heathens. But now it’s time to make amends with Kelly, for the benefit of the South Side Squad.

I purposely drop back as our group approaches the elevators in the lobby of 30 Rock. The Philadelphia boss is deep in conversation with a man who is sweating in his winter-weight brown suit. Kelly’s gaze is hard as lapis when he finally looks my way.

“General,” I say, nodding my head in a gesture of respect. Braiden Kelly isn’t just captain of the Philly mob. He’s general of all the Irish crime families in America. He’s my own da’s boss.