Her Consigliere

by Carsen Taite

  Lost in her thoughts, she almost didn’t notice the briefcase sitting on the table in the foyer. Had it been there before? She hadn’t had a chance to look here before Siobhan had surprised her in the living room as she was about to open her mother’s antique basket.

  She glanced over her shoulder. The silence in the apartment was thick, and she wondered if Siobhan had fallen asleep. If she was still in her room, it was about twenty good-sized steps from there to here. Five seconds give or take from the noise of footfalls to the loss of opportunity. Was the risk of being caught worth it?

  She carefully unfastened the latch and pulled the briefcase open. It was practically empty save for a legal pad and a Visconti fountain pen. She stared at the zippered inside pocket and looked around the still silent room. She held her breath as she eased the zipper open and ran her fingers along the inside. A paper crinkled against her touch and she felt something small, hard with squared edges. She pulled it out and examined the flash drive. If she had the luxury of time, she could copy the contents onto her phone, but doing so with Siobhan only steps away was a risk too far.

  She should put it back and try again later. But what if it was gone? It was Friday night, the weekend. She could surely put it back before Siobhan noticed it was missing. All she had to do was come up with some reason to come back here—it wasn’t like she didn’t want to anyway.

  Decision made, she shoved the drive in her pocket and zipped the inside compartment of Siobhan’s briefcase shut and fastened the bag shut. Moments later, she was in a car that wasn’t hers, headed to the house she didn’t own. The only thing that had been real about tonight was her unrelenting attraction to Siobhan, and the reality was she’d just betrayed her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Siobhan rolled over in bed and reached for her phone on the nightstand. She scrunched her eyes at the screen, but getting them to focus was a monumental task. She reached into her nightstand for the readers she used when she had to sit up late reading legal briefs and slipped them on. Shit. It was eleven a.m. She’d never slept this late and, on top of that, she must’ve shut the ringer off—something she only ever did when she was in court—because a long line of missed calls greeted her. She swung out of bed, grabbed her silk robe from her closet, and made her way to the kitchen, where she started a large pot of coffee as fortification for the string of messages.

  Carlo, his voice laced with concern: “Patatino, check in with me as soon as you receive this message.”

  Carlo again, with an undercurrent of frustration: “Neal says she hasn’t seen you yet this morning. You promised me last night you would come to the house for brunch, but no one has heard from you. Neal said she knocked on your door, but you haven’t answered.”

  Dominique, annoyed: “Where are you? Poppa is worried and wants to know why you haven’t called him back. I told him you were probably working to show how even a bomb threat doesn’t throw you off track, but he’s tasked me with making sure you’re okay, so this is me doing my part. Brunch was great, by the way.”

  Neal, concerned: “I’m sure you know by now that everyone is looking for you. I know you haven’t left your apartment, but someone else did. I respect your privacy as much as the next person, but if I don’t hear from you in the next thirty minutes, I’m breaking down the door.”

  Siobhan looked at the time of her call and realized she’d probably be planning her break-in in the next few minutes. She cinched the tie of her robe and made it to the door just as the loud pounding started. She swung the door wide. “Thank goodness I don’t have any neighbors, or you would’ve woken them all up by now.”

  Neal’s expression transformed from frantic to cautiously relaxed in a matter of seconds. She motioned to Pete, who was standing behind her, and told him to stay put before following Siobhan back into the apartment and shutting the door behind them. “What’s with the communication blackout?”

  “What’s with the lack of respect for my privacy?” she snapped back, annoyed at the continued intrusion on her morning after. She walked to the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee, intentionally not offering one to her. “You knew I was in for the night, and obviously you’ve been watching, so you know I haven’t left. Am I not allowed to have some time to myself?”

  “But you weren’t alone all night, were you?” She scowled. “You are aware that someone is trying to kill you, right? You bring a woman home, and she leaves and then it’s radio silence from you. You ignored calls from Carlo, Dominique, and me, which is completely out of character. Who’s to say you weren’t lying here dead?”

  “Wait, you thought…” Siobhan had trouble wrapping her mind around the idea Neal or anyone else in her family thought Royal was in her apartment doing her harm when Royal had done the exact opposite, right up until the moment she’d abruptly left. “Never mind. As you can see, I’m fine.” She flicked her hand in Neal’s direction. “You can go report back to whoever you need to that all is well.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, but she didn’t move.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “You’re not going to like this.”

  Her stomach spun with dread. “Tell me.”

  “Last night wasn’t just a threat. There was a bomb at the museum. The don doesn’t want us to leave you alone. We’re to stay with you, round-the-clock and close by.”

  Siobhan stared at her for a moment as she sorted through her words. She already knew from her conversation with Carlo last night the police had recovered a bomb. If it had gone off, a large portion of Dallas high society would’ve been caught in the blast and the event would’ve occupied headlines for days. She got that it was a big deal, but what did that have to do with a complete loss of privacy for her?

  “He thinks you were the target. He thinks—”

  “Wait.” Siobhan held up her hand to get her to stop talking. She was already having trouble digesting his message, but the idea someone might have placed a bomb in a building packed with people for the sole purpose of targeting her was more than she could handle. She sagged against the counter, and within seconds, Neal was at her side, leading her to the living room. She settled onto the couch and motioned for her to sit in the chair across from her.

  “Hang on, I’ll be right back,” she said before disappearing into the kitchen instead.

  She stared after her, but she didn’t have the energy to protest. The near miss from the SUV was one thing, but using a mass casualty incident to send a message to the Mancuso family was over the top. Mikhail Petrov was a vicious man, but was he stupid enough to risk the level of law enforcement scrutiny that would come from killing dozens of innocent people? She supposed it was possible, but she was skeptical despite the fact no other plausible explanation came to mind.

  “Here, take this.”

  Neal handed her a glass of water, and when she took it from her, she held out her other hand, palm up. She stared at the small, white oval pill and shook her head. “You know I don’t do drugs.”

  “It’s prescription.”

  “Not mine.”

  “Seriously? It’s the smallest dose, but it’ll take the edge off.”

  She hesitated. She could use a horse tranquilizer right now, but she needed a clear mind more. “My edge is what makes me effective. Keep your pills for yourself, and don’t ever let Don Carlo catch you with them. You’ll be out in an instant.” She stared while she shrugged and placed the pill in her pocket, hoping she understood “be out” was a permanent state of being. “I need you to be sharp. We’re being attacked. If they would go after me like this, then the entire family is in danger.”

  “You think it’s Petrov.”

  “What do you think?” she asked, genuinely curious about her opinion.

  “It could be him. He knows you’re valuable to the don, but because you’re not a blood relation, he figures he can send a message by hurting you without risking an all-out war.”

  She shuddered. Neal was right. She wasn’t family. Attacking her direc
tly would send a message without incurring the hellfire wrath that killing one of Carlo’s children would bring.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was crass.”

  “It was honest, and honesty is exactly what I need right now.” Neal’s words stung, but she was right, and Siobhan had ignored the implications at her peril. “We have work to do.”

  “This means we’ll be canceling the meeting with Petrov.” Her conclusory tone indicated she thought it was a foregone conclusion.

  “No.”

  “You’re kidding, right? You really want to walk into a meeting with him when it’s possible the man is set on killing you?”

  She didn’t, but it was her job. A job she had not because she’d inherited it, but because she owed everything she’d achieved, everything she’d acquired, to her don. And no matter how trepidatious she might be about facing Mikhail Petrov when she was convinced he was using her as a pawn in his feud with the family, she had never backed down from a fight and she wasn’t about to start. “I’m not kidding. Nothing has changed. This is happening. Go and tell Michael. He’ll want to beef up security for the family before the meeting—the house, the offices, Valentino’s—assume no place is safe from attack. He’ll know what to do. And let Don Carlo know I’m okay and I’ll be over later.”

  Neal stood, understanding she was being dismissed. Siobhan sensed her reluctance to leave, but she needed a little alone time to get her emotions in check before she reviewed strategy with Carlo.

  “I’ll be with you at the meeting with Petrov,” Neal said. “You shouldn’t go in there alone.”

  She was right. She shouldn’t meet Petrov alone, but she was resistant to the idea of bringing Neal with her. No matter that Petrov would likely be surrounded by his own security. He never went anywhere without his overly muscled bodyguards, but while his team was a show of force, for her, as a woman, having a bodyguard at her side signaled she was weak and needed protection. She needed to put Petrov on his heels if she was going to get any useful intel out of their meeting.

  An idea flashed and her first instinct was to push it away, but as it rocked around inside her head, it became more and more intriguing. Royal. If she showed up to the meeting with Royal, Petrov would be distracted by the unfamiliar face—wondering who she was, what her presence meant. Whether she showed up with Neal or Royal, Petrov would scoff at the idea another woman could serve as protection, and Siobhan suspected he’d do so at his peril. Royal was strong and steady, and she’d pit her wits against Petrov and his men any day of the week. Bringing Royal along would be the perfect excuse to see her again and she realized that was a large part of her motivation. If she could accomplish two goals at once, why wouldn’t she? Her skin tingled as she remembered Royal’s hands on her naked body, focused on giving her pleasure and gently drawing out emotions she couldn’t remember ever experiencing. Since the moment Royal had left, she’d wanted her back in her bed, but she’d settle for spending time with her, even if it was work. She should feel guilty about the possibility she was putting Royal in danger, but her instincts told her Royal didn’t shy away from a challenge—a quality she found irresistible.

  ❖

  Royal pushed through the door of the diner and walked directly to the counter, pleased to find several open spots on a busy Saturday morning. She placed the newspaper she’d brought on the counter to her left and looked at the waitress who’d appeared out of nowhere.

  “Coffee?” she asked, slinging a cup and saucer in front of her as if an affirmative answer was a foregone conclusion.

  Royal set her thumb on the saucer to keep it from rattling and checked the woman’s name tag. Marge. Not because she intended to use it—she didn’t want to draw attention—but gathering details was a habit. “Yes, black.”

  Marge nodded approvingly, took two steps, grabbed a steaming pot off of a burner, and filled her cup in one fluid motion. “You want a menu?”

  “No need. I’ll have eggs over easy, toast, bacon crisp.”

  Again with the nod and Marge was gone in a flash, the model of efficiency. She should take a page from Marge’s book, but instead she’d completely mucked things up over the past twenty-four hours.

  On any other job she’d be telling herself that sleeping with a potential target was a means to an end, and intimacy was one of the easiest ways to gather information. But she’d been trying to convince herself last night meant nothing since she’d left Siobhan’s penthouse apartment, without success. She was distracted by Siobhan, intrigued by her role in the family, but more than that she was intrigued by the mystery of an accomplished woman who had an incredible amount going for her, but had chosen to dedicate her life to an organized crime family.

  When she’d gotten back to her house last night, she’d scoured Siobhan’s FBI file again. And again, but the facts hadn’t changed. Raised by a single mother who worked at the Mancusos’ mansion. She’d lived in the servants’ quarters until her mother died suddenly when she was ten years old. Carlo Mancuso had literally taken her in. She’d moved into the big house, went to private school with his daughters, and to all appearances, she’d been a third daughter to him. She’d gone to college and law school at his behest and on his dime, dutifully come back to serve as his counselor, and armed with her knowledge of the law, she advised him on how to break it. To the FBI, she was as guilty as Carlo for all the crimes committed in the family name.

  But as often happened in her line of work, when she met the players in person, Royal inevitably uncovered layers to all of the “bad” guys that showed they couldn’t simply be reduced to their illegal activity. They had wives and families and other people who loved them. They were Little League coaches, food bank volunteers, and philanthropists. She replayed the image of Siobhan at the museum, discussing art and standing in front of the Dallas elite to deliver a message about charitable giving, looking nothing like a powerful counselor to Don Carlo Mancuso, one of the most notorious godfathers in Texas. Anyone would be a fool to underestimate her, but Royal had picked up on her tender side, first in the hesitation she’d shown about speaking to the crowd and then in bed where she’d been an incredibly receptive lover.

  “May I borrow the sports section?”

  She glanced to her left, surprised to see Wharton again. She’d expected him to send a low-level agent for a simple handoff. That he’d take the risk of appearing near her again meant he was unable to contain his excitement at what she’d managed to procure. “Sure,” she said. She picked up the paper and swiped through the pages until she located a story about the Dallas Cowboys. She shook the section free and handed it to Wharton, slipping the flash drive into his hand with the transfer.

  “I don’t know what you’re going to find in there. I wasn’t able to read it.” She’d tried to access the drive, but it was encrypted, and she’d eventually given up for fear she’d lock herself and worse yet, Siobhan, out of the data. She’d called Wharton and arranged this meet under the condition she would get the drive back by the end of the day, at which point she’d have to figure out a way to get it back into Siobhan’s briefcase. She was torn between hoping there was something important on the drive and hoping it was nothing more than a backup of Siobhan’s camera roll. While it would be great to have concrete evidence of Mancuso crimes, if the drive contained sensitive information about the family business, it was likely Siobhan was already looking for it. Royal had no idea how she was going to get it back to her, but she was anxious to do so as soon as possible.

  “If it’s okay with you, I’m going to take this back to my table,” Wharton said, making a show of holding up the sports section. “I’ll bring it back to you when I’m done.”

  She waved him off. “Keep it. I’m not big on sports.”

  He touched the brim of his hat, walked to a nearby table, and sat down in front of a huge stack of pancakes, which made Royal think of Ryan. Wharton had told her on the phone that all he’d been able to learn about Ryan was that his discharge was honorable—to
Royal’s relief—but he hadn’t been able to find out what motivated it. Ryan had served four years of his five-year Ranger commitment. He may not have been the rule follower she’d always been, but she had a hard time coming up with a reason he’d break his promise to the Army when joining the service had been the sole source of solace for them both after the childhood they’d endured at the hands of a drunk man who couldn’t keep his wife and didn’t want to keep the kids she’d left behind.

  The abuse they’d suffered, mostly verbal, but sometimes physical, had always affected Ryan worse. She’d shielded him the best she could, but keeping him fed, clothed, and housed was all she could manage when she had demons of her own to combat after raising them alone. But things were different now. She’d overcome her abandonment issues, and Ryan didn’t need someone to provide creature comforts, but he did need emotional support and it was up to her to give it to him because he was never going to ask. If she were in the same circumstance, she probably wouldn’t reach out for help either, so she could hardly blame him for trying to go it alone.

  The waitress set her food down and the order was perfect. She hadn’t realized she was hungry, and the bacon called out to her. She had a crispy piece halfway to her mouth when someone sat down in the chair next to her and leaned into her space. She broadened her shoulders to reassert her dominion, but the customer wasn’t backing off. She dropped the bacon back down to her plate and prepared to do battle over the few inches between them, starting by “accidentally” slipping off her chair. When the stranger reached to break her fall, she took advantage of the diversion and shoved her setup down a space, but when she turned back to her, Royal realized it was Neal. “You’re Siobhan’s driver,” she said, surprised and slightly alarmed to see her here with Wharton only a few feet away.

  Neal’s face twisted into a frown. “I’m more than her driver.”