Page 96 of The Mafia Enforcer's Temptation

From the front seat, Mikey won’t look at me, and Declan won’t stop staring. “You make Seamus so pissed off… it’s almost like love.”

“Bite your fucking tongue,eejit,” Seamus says. “Eyes front. Now.”

Declan salutes and does as he’s told, holding a streaming commentary for Mikey as we head to the West Village.

For long moments, Seamus stares out the window.

Finally, he looks at me. “You’re fucking lucky Mikey’s loyal.”

“No, he isn’t.”

“To me. To the Murphys,” he snaps, his bare leg pressing against the seat in front. “If he hadn’t called, what would that man who grabbed you have done?”

“Probably nothing.”

A bitter smile twists his mouth as he looks at me. “You knew him?”

“I’d have ended him.”

He laughs. It’s a cynical sound. “Oh, sure, you looked completely in control there.”

I huff out a breath, hating he’s right.

“So, you knew him?”

“No.” I look out the window, then at Seamus. “I honestly don’t know who he was.”

“You? Honest?” He studies me. “Why do I think you know more than you’re telling me?”

I breathe out, smooth my hands down the front of my jeans. The back of my leg hurts where the man stomped on it. “I really don’t. He just said he wanted you all out of the way. And then you appeared.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“He hinted at cartel ties,” I say.

“That makes even less sense.” Seamus frowns. “They don’t do that shit. If the cartel wanted you, they’d have you, or we’d know.”

He looks at me with suspicion.

“First last night, now this. What are you up to, Ava?”

All my senses bristle. “Nothing. You know what I want. That hasn’t changed. Greedy and coldly ambitious tends to be straightforward, doesn’t it? And I still despise you for getting in my way.”

Now there’s a touch of amusement to his features as he looks at me. “Since I’m helping you get that, shouldn’t the hate be morphing into begrudging indifference?”

“No. You’re too insufferable.”

“As are you, sweet thing.” Then he looks at the cloth bags in the car. “Bread? Vegetables?”

Heat suddenly hits and the memory of finding Mama’s cookbook floods. It was on the floor in the room, under the coffee table.

“You went to my apartment,” I say, “and took Mama’s cookbook.”

Now color floods his cheeks. “I went looking for clues, figuring I’d know them if I saw them. And the book looked… important to you.”

“It is.” I swallow. “Thank you.”

“The food?” He points to the bags.