It had been over a week, nine days to be exact, and Neal hadn’t heard a single word from Ana. She was beginning to think their encounter had been a figment of her imagination, but Michael assured her he’d seen the entire dinner take place from his spot across the dining room. Maybe it was only the content of the conversation her memory hadn’t accurately captured.
Yet, Ana hadn’t called, hadn’t sent any messages. So much for their mutually beneficial arrangement. Hard to have one of those when one party ghosted the other.
“Boss, there’s a truck outside. Driver says it’s an order for you.”
Neal shook off her malaise and stared at Michael who was standing in the door to the manager’s office at Valentino’s. She hadn’t placed any orders since it was unlikely anyone would leave the booze with no cash in hand—a theory she had no plans to test in front of any of the rest of the crew who didn’t have personal knowledge of the extent of the financial problems that faced them all. If they knew how little cash the family had on hand, they would panic, and Neal needed everyone to remain calm and focused on the business, not jumping ship because they thought it was going under.
She walked out of the building and onto the dock to find a large trailer backed up to the first of three loading docks. A guy she assumed was the driver was leaned against the back doors of the trailer holding a clipboard.
“You Neal?” he asked.
Hardly any of the suppliers knew her well enough to recognize her in person. She ignored the question and pointed at the clipboard. “That your order?”
“Yep.”
She held out a hand and he shoved it toward her. She stared at the contents for a moment, and then began flipping pages, but they all looked the same, each listing case after case of liquor. “We didn’t order all this.” She turned another page. “We didn’t order any of it.”
The driver hunched his shoulders. “It’s paid for and I’m supposed to deliver it here.” He glanced at his watch. “I got another delivery to make. Tell me where you want me to unload.”
Another warning bell went off in Neal’s head. The Mancusos had never paid invoices in advance. Something was up.
As if on cue, her phone buzzed, signaling an incoming text. Accept the gift and consider it a show of good faith. You’ll hear from me soon.
She didn’t recognize the number, but she knew exactly who’d sent the message. Years of hard-earned cynicism urged her to send the truck away, but her gut told her to heed Ana’s message and see where it led. She pointed to the left side of the warehouse. “You can unload over there. Make sure the boxes stay separate from the ones already there.”
She watched him unload, scrutinizing the outside of the boxes as if they contained important clues. The free booze was a nice gesture, but it would only exacerbate the cash flow problem since they’d have to sell it to make money and they were already having trouble unloading the inventory they had on hand. Whatever. So Ana didn’t have a great business mind. It wasn’t like she’d expected to hear from her at all.
“What’s with the boxes?” Michael asked, appearing at her side.
“Good question. Apparently, our new friend thinks we don’t have booze to fill all our orders.” She fished out her pocketknife and reached for the closest box. “At least we’ll have a bigger profit margin since this is all gratis.” She slid the knife along the box tape and peeled back the lid to reveal a dozen bottles of Jameson’s. She reached a hand in the box. “May as well take a couple to have in the office.” Her fingers curled around the neck of the bottle, but when she went to lift it, her hand flung through the air as it weighed much less than she expected. “What the hell?”
“What is it?” Michael asked.
“Not sure.” She turned the label and stared at the print. It looked real, but even through the green glass she could tell there was no liquid in the bottle, only a thick, brick shaped object. She reached for the cap and started to turn it, listening for the sound of a broken seal. Nothing. She twisted it the rest of the way off and turned the bottle upside down.
“Seriously, Neal,” Michael said. “What’re you doing?” His eyes widened when nothing came out of the bottle. “Empties?”
She shook it and listened to the thunk of whatever was inside. “No, but no liquor for sure.” She shook the bottle hard. Nothing came out, but she felt a seam in the glass with the tip of her finger. She examined it for a moment, impressed by the length someone had gone to tuck away whatever was inside. Ana. She’d done this. Her impression of Petrov’s trophy wife rose even further.
But this wasn’t about being impressed. Her impression of Ana would only get in the way of any potential business relationship. She hefted the bottle and looked around the room. “Stand back.” She barely waited for Michael to get out of the way before striking the bottle against one of the steel support beams nearby. It broke at the seam, and a sparkly mess of jade shattered and scattered around her boots. But it wasn’t the green that caught her eye. “Cash,” she murmured. “She sent cash.” She reached down, brushed away shards of glass, and flipped through the stack of banded bills.
“This from Petrov’s wife?” Michael asked. “There’s like fifty g’s in that bottle alone. How the hell did they get it in there?”
The words “Petrov’s wife” rubbed her the wrong way, but she pushed her annoyance away in favor of figuring out exactly what Ana had done. She pointed to the rest of the boxes. “Check them. Just you.”
“You want me to break any cash out of the bottles?”
“Nope. You see any more like this, put them back like you never saw them. Sometimes the best hiding place is in plain sight. Just check every case and report back if you find anything like what we just saw.”
“Roger that.” He was a couple of steps from the door when he paused and turned back. “What does she want for all this?”
Exactly the question that had been rocking around in her head. “I have no idea, but I’m thinking whatever she wants is a big ask or she wouldn’t be risking her marriage, let alone her life. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it when the time comes. In the meantime, everything about these boxes is top secret—where they came from, what’s in them. You and me are in the know, but no one else. Got it?”
“Got it.”
She nodded and walked to her office, resisting the pull of helping Michael catalogue the funds, but the guys couldn’t see her doing menial work in the warehouse because it would diminish her authority. Laughing, talking, and being part of the group—she’d lost all of that when she agreed to be in charge, but someone had to lead and, despite the fact she’d never wanted the job, it was hers now and she’d rise to it, like she’d always done in the past.
Neal nearly dropped the pan at the sound of a knock on the door. The only person who ever knocked was the deadbeat landlord who expected rent on time but never fixed a damn thing until time had run out on it. It was the fifteenth—what could he want smack in the middle of the month?
She set the pan down and wiped her hands on the kitchen towel, steeling herself for a difficult conversation. She strode to the door and cracked it as far as the chain lock would allow, but it wasn’t her fat, bearded landlord standing in the hall. No, it was the tall, svelte beauty who’d been with Don Carlo the night he’d rescued her from being beaten to death by Fellini’s guys.
“Take off the chain and let me in.”
The woman’s commanding tone gave off the impression she was used to being obeyed, which naturally made Neal want to resist. She spent a moment considering the consequences before finally slipping the chain from the lock and pulling back the door to let the woman in. No matter how much she didn’t want a stranger in her house, she’d pledged her loyalty to Don Carlo and anyone who worked for him with no exceptions for bossy women who showed up on her doorstep late at night, and then made themselves at home the way this woman was doing right now.
“I never got your name,” Neal said as she followed the woman into the living room. Seeing the room through a stranger’s eyes, she was struck by how much tinier it was than anything this woman was probably used to.
“I never said my name.”
“I guess that explains that. Tell me now.”
“Are you always this demanding?” the woman asked. “Because that could pose a problem.”
“For who?”
“My name is Siobhan,” the woman said, kind of answering the question. She walked in a circle around Neal and made clicking sounds with her tongue. “It’s nice to see a woman taller than I am.”
Neal pointed at the tall stilts that Siobhan was wearing. “What are those? Three inches? Four? Pretty sure you don’t have to be as tall as you are. Me? I’m stuck this way.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s only good for one thing and that thing is dead to me now.”
Siobhan nodded. “True. You’ll never play college ball again, let alone pro, but that’s not the only avenue left to you.”
The honesty was harsh but refreshing, especially since everyone else in her life kept assuring her she’d return to the sport someday. “I’m aware I’ll never play again. And I know I can do pretty much anything else, but nothing where I blend in, where it’s perfectly normal to be this tall.”
“Blending in can be overrated.”
“Said people who have no trouble doing it.” Neal walked to the kitchen only half caring if Siobhan would follow her. She was starving and her omelet was getting cold. She looked behind her to find Siobhan standing less than a foot away. “Are you hungry?”
“Maybe.”
“If that ‘maybe’ is because you think I can’t cook, you’d be mistaken. I’m no chef, but I can make a decent omelet and I’m starving. You can either watch me or join me.” She reached for the pan and slid the omelet onto a plate, sliced it in half, and slid one of the halves onto another plate which she shoved toward Siobhan. “Enjoy.”
Siobhan stared at the food for a moment before picking up a fork and taking a bite. “Not bad.” She poked around with her fork. “Spinach, tomatoes, mushrooms, cheese. Garlic too, right?”
Neal smiled. “Garlic is my favorite food group. You like?”
“I do. My mother was the head cook for the Mancuso family for many years and she never shied away from flavor.”
Interesting. Neal would’ve never guessed that the consigliere for a powerful Don would confess her mother had worked as a servant, but then again, she never would’ve expected Mancuso’s consigliere to show up at her doorstep either. She wanted to drill deeper, find out what this visit was all about, but sensed it would be best to let Siobhan get to the point when she was ready, so she dove into her half of the omelet while she waited for this scene to play out.
“Do you cook for your sister?”
Neal nearly choked on her food at Siobhan’s question—both for the content and the breezy way she asked, like it was no big deal that Siobhan knew she had a sister, that she took care of her. She decided the best thing to do was to match Siobhan’s nonchalant tone. “I used to, but there are people who cook for her now. I guess you already know that.”
Siobhan nodded and took another bite. She wiped her lips and managed to make the simple act incredibly sexy.
Watch yourself. Before she could focus too much on the thought, Siobhan spoke again.
“You don’t visit her much anymore.”
Neal’s gut clenched with guilt and the disturbing realization Siobhan knew way more about her than most people. Was she being judged? Would she fall short? Did she care?
After a moment, she decided to meet the comment head-on. “It’s easier on everyone if I don’t.”
“Hmm.” Siobhan finished off her omelet and dabbed at her lips with her napkin before folding it neatly and setting it to the side of the plate. “Does your mother know what you did?”
She shook her head. She hadn’t confided in her about the deal she’d struck with the Fellini family to throw the last round of the tournament, trading her chance at a championship ring for a better life for her sister. Ida Walsh didn’t have the capacity or motivation to take the lead, so it had been up to her. Now that everything had worked out there was no sense filling in the details, details she’d have questions about and wouldn’t be able to let go.
“You did the right thing. She would never understand,” Siobhan said, eerily echoing her thoughts.
“How do you know so much about it?”
Siobhan’s expression softened for a moment. “I too have made hard choices. Choices that were very personal and private.”
Neal was sure this was meant to be a kumbaya moment, but she was ready to get back to her evening, and it didn’t involve cyphering cryptic messages from a counselor to a mob family even if that very family had saved her life. She may be alive and her sister cared for, but she’d lost everything else and there was no way back from that. “The difference between us is that you get to keep your choices private. The end of my career is all over the news.” She pointed at the boot she wore on her right foot. “And this is my daily reminder. Did you come here to rub it in?”
“You have an interesting way of thanking your benefactors.”
Neal bowed her head at the scolding. She knew she should be grateful, but worry over what her future held clouded her thoughts, stoked her rebellion. She mustered a trace of humility. “I’m sorry. I owe Don Carlo a debt and I will gladly repay.”
Siobhan stood, reached into her bag, and pulled out a keycard. “Good.” She handed Neal the card. “I’ll text you my address and this will get you into the building. There’s a seven a.m. flight to Dallas, and you can take a cab from Love Field. Be at my place by nine a.m.” She didn’t wait for a response before starting toward the door.
Neal stared at the card in her hand. She may owe a debt, but that didn’t mean she’d signed up to be this woman’s plaything, let alone move to another state to be at her disposal. “Wait.” Siobhan turned in time to see her toss the card on the kitchen counter. “I’m not interested.”
Siobhan looked at the card and then stared hard at her in total silence for what seemed like forever. When she spoke, her words were sharp and clipped. “It wasn’t a request. You need a job and I need a bodyguard. Nine tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
Siobhan strode to the door and, this time, she didn’t look back. Neal watched her go while her mind swirled with the import of what had just happened and how her life was about to change.