Page 9 of Sinful Mafia Santa
The man Kelly was speaking with has taken a step back. I don’t know if he’s versed in the rankings of Irish mob families. I hope so, because I can’t wait to drop my family name. Maybe that will make him break off staring at my chest, as if my Carolina Herrera cashmere turtleneck is some sort of engraved invitation for his drooling attention.
“Aeryn,” Kelly says, with a slight dip of his chin. I’m surprised he knows my name. But then I remember it’s his business to know everything about every clan in the country. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Before I can respond, Kelly reaches past me. “Rider,” he says, shaking Gage’s hand.
“Of course you two know each other,” Gage says. He smiles as he says it, keeping his tone light, but I feel the faint pressure of his fingertips at the small of my back, sending sparks up my spine to the lizard parts of my brain. Gage has followed meacross the bronze-and-marble lobby and squared up to Kelly, as if he’s willing to fight for my honor if I give him half a sign.
He can’t be naive about what such a gesture could cost him. His words prove he knows Kelly’s role with the mob. Maybe he just doesn’t care. Gage was always good in a fight, for all the years he played hockey. Until that last one. The one that cost Logan his life.
Kelly is eyeing me politely, his eyebrows just raised. I say, “Gage and I are old friends. When he found out I was alone in New York without plans on the Saturday before Christmas, he invited me to tag along.”
This isn’t a mob function; Kelly holds no actual power at this event. I’ve fulfilled my duty, recognizing his status with his title. He acknowledges as much by gesturing toward the elevator that has just arrived. “Please,” he says to me, letting me enter first. Gage joins us, along with half our party.
The sweat-soaked man squeezes in at the last moment. He stands, facing us, as the elevator soars to the top of the building. I cross my arms over my chest.
Kelly’s quick eyes notice, but he merely turns to his wife. “Samantha, this is Aeryn Reardon, from Chicago. Aeryn, Samantha.”
Samantha’s smile is generous. I’ve heard stories about her. Every woman born into a mob family has. She serves as Braiden Kelly’s Clan Chief—his second in command—a rank no other woman has held.
And yet there’s one Irish mob woman with a rank higher than Samantha. That’s Fiona Ingram Moran, the ruling Queen of the Boston clan. And she’s standing by the hostess stand, talking to Trap Prince like they’re old friends. She’s part of the Diamond Ring too, a point I would have realized if Gage and I had arrived at the theater on time.
Samantha brushes a kiss against Kelly’s cheek. “We’ll join you in a moment,” she says. “Alix?” She draws the attention of Trap’sfiancée, then includes me with a gesture. I smile at Gage before the three of us follow the signs down a short hall to a restroom. Half a dozen gleaming doors sit across from matching sinks. We pause, though, in a softly lit lounge the size of an airplane hangar.
Samantha drops her clutch purse on a ledge in front of a smoked glass mirror. “Alix,” she says. “You havegotto get Roger Turner out of the Diamond Ring.”
Alix laughs. “You served as the freeport’s General Counsel for how many years? You know Trap will put up with just about anything from his top billionaire clients.”
“If that slimy toad delivers one more compliment straight to my breasts, I can’t be responsible for what Braiden does.”
So, the sweat-soaked man has a name. “Maybe Gage can knock out a couple of his teeth,” I volunteer, checking my lipstick in the mirror. “Just as a general service to female-kind,” I say.
Alix eyes both of our reflections. “Frogsare slimy,” she says to Samantha. “Not toads. I’ll ask Trap to say something to Turner. Again.”
The lounge door opens, and Fiona Moran slips inside. “Are we talking about Roger Turner?”
“Of course,” Samantha says.
“Did he bring his wife tonight? I didn’t see anyone out there miserable enough to be married to that asshole.”
Alix shakes her head. “She sent her regrets last month, when the invitations went out.”
“Maybe he isn’t really married,” Fiona says. She twists her neck as she glances in the mirror, eyeing her arse in her Balenciaga suit. I’d give Gran’s recipe for Guinness chocolate cake just to add that outfit to my collection. I realize Fiona isn’t wearing anything beneath her tailored jacket. It’s a good look, one I need to remember.
“He’s married,” Alix says. “He’s just a horn-dog cocksucker.”
Samantha grins at her in the mirror. “I see you’re embracing Trap’s vocabulary tonight.”
Alix shrugs and looks at me. “Sorry, Aeryn,” she says. “Once upon a time, I was a respectable girl.”
I offer my own shrug. “Sometimes you have to call a gobshite wanker a gobshite wanker.” All three of the women laugh.
Samantha runs a finger under her eyeliner as she asks, “So how do you know Gage, Aeryn?”
I choose the simplest answer. “He was my brother’s best friend.”
Was.
My answer hangs there for a beat too long and I rush to cover the silence. “I hadn’t seen him for ages, for almost ten years. But a friend took me to his club last night and?—”