Twice As Delicious

by Vanessa Vale

  I stared at my best friend as he took a sip of his drink.

  Going on a hunch, I flipped open my laptop, slid back into my chair. O’Sullivan wasn’t my client, but considering all the familiar faces at the party, I figured one degree of separation was more than enough to go on. One by one, I put in the names of every guest I’d spoken to last night, cross referencing it with Shamus O’Sullivan. Nothing came up, so I dropped his first name and did the search again.

  One name popped up in my search results.

  I studied the name intently for a while, and turned the idea over in my mind. Rotating my chair, I gazed blankly out the window. Why didn’t I think about him before? Liam O’Sullivan. Everything I’d heard about this relative—a nephew—of Shamus’s pointed to him being nothing like the rest of his extended family.

  Liam and I had referred business to each other, and there were never any problems or unhappy customers reporting back on a poor experience. No word of shady deals or any impropriety at all. He was clean. But was blood thicker than water for this guy? How deep did their family loyalty go? If I reached out to Liam, would his next call be to rat me out to his uncle?

  “Bingo.”

  I sat with one arm outstretched to my desk phone and my palm inches from the handset, weighing the risks.

  “Bingo? What do you have?”

  My lips parted as I began to speak but my phone chirped just then. Then it went off again.

  “Hang on a sec,” I told Leo, eyes glued to my phone screen, which blew up with message after message from one client after the other out of the blue.

  He eyed me, taking a long swig of alcohol as he waited. “You’re the man of the hour. Is that all one person stalking your ass, or several?”

  “Several. A lot, but not stalkers. Clients.” Opening the text app, I read the first few before replying. They were from many of my top clients, each asking the same basic question in one way or another. They’d all heard about the Upper West Side shooting, somehow, and each of them wanted to know if I was okay, which by extension, was the true purpose of their call—the question of whether or not their information was still secure. “Something strange is going on. Word’s gotten out to them about the shooting.”

  “What?” Leo asked, setting down his glass. “Already?”

  “They’re scrambling to find out if their fucking secrets are still locked up tight.”

  “Are they?”

  I gave him a dark look. “Of course.” I logged onto my company’s secure server and did a quick scan diagnostic. Everything was in order. “Yep. All good.”

  “Hang on a second,” he said, holding up a hand. “First of all, how would they know where you were, let alone at a shooting? And second, how in the fuck would they know to reach out to you at the same time?”

  I dropped my phone onto the desk, leaned back in my chair. “I have no idea about your first question, but I’m guessing the shooting made the news somehow, and my name could’ve been mentioned.” I swiveled toward my laptop and pulled up an internet browser, did a quick search of my company name. There was nothing new on the alerts, but on my name, my personal name, a few local news articles included me in their coverage of the shooting.

  “Leo, get over here and take a look at this.” I pointed to the small screen.

  He was at my side in an instant, reading over my shoulder as we took in the media coverage about me. The details were vague, most of them noting something to the effect that I was seen in the general area of the Upper West Side shooting, that I was possibly the target of a hit, and as far as reports received, I was fine.

  “At least they didn’t report that your ass is dead,” Leo said, his face stern as he sank back into his chair again. “What the fuck do you think that’s about?”

  “No fucking clue, man.” I leaned back, folding my arms as I tried to piece it together.

  He pulled out his phone and opened his web browser, flicked his thumb over the screen. “This shit could all be O’Sullivan. I wouldn’t put it past his people to leak a story like that to get you to show your face. Look at this one.” He turned the phone toward me. “That’s outside. See all those reporters? They’re downstairs already. This shit isn’t random. It has to be O’Sullivan, working to draw you out. He knows Harper’s with you. With us.”

  I blew out a frustrated breath. “That must be it. The news coverage would explain the phone calls from practically my entire top tier client list. And only O’Sullivan would know I was at Harper’s kitchen. Fuck, the man probably had people on us since before we left here this morning.”

  He shook his head. “I hate to say it, but that makes sense. Think about it. If the place has hidden cameras, one could’ve picked up Harper in the garage, and they’d know I was at her kitchen, too. And who do I work for? To top it off, they saw both of us with Harper last night during the party. O’Sullivan probably assumed we knew her well enough—perhaps longer than just meeting her at the event—that she’d tell us what she’d seen. Fuck, maybe they kept a tail here at the condo since last night. And when we left together to head to the Upper West Side, that pretty much confirmed everything they needed to know. That the three of us were—are—together, know about the dead body, and needed to get just as fucking dead.”

  “So he leaked my name to the press to draw me out?” I asked.

  “To make a public statement, maybe. Either that or to keep you here.”

  “But I don’t get the part—” I stopped our hypothetical debate as my desk phone rang. The number was from an unknown caller. “Think it’s the press?”

  “Could be.”

  Picking up the handset, I took the call. “Dane speaking.”

  “Mr. Crawford,” the deep voice on the other line drawled.

  “That’s me. How can I help you?”

  “O’Sullivan here. Shamus O’Sullivan. You and I need to have a conversation.”

  I pointed at the phone, nodding over to Leo and mouthing the word ‘O’Sullivan’. “I’m listening,” I said to the son of a bitch.

  “I don’t have such discussions over the phone. Let’s set up a meeting. Keep your eye on your cell phone. I’ll text you the time and place.”

  The click on the other end of the line told me O’Sullivan hung up. Shaking my head, I squeezed the phone.

  “Motherfucker wants to meet.”

  “Fuck no,” Leo shouted. “No fucking way. Did he even say where?”

  “He said he’d text me.”

  “Hell no. That’s a trap.”

  “You won’t get any disagreement from me.”

  “We have to do something,” he barked gruffly, getting back on his feet and pacing.

  “Relax. I got this.”

  He stopped, turned his head to look at me with that angry expression I knew so well. “How do you figure?”

  “We were on the right track before my phone blew up with calls from panicked clients. Your idea is solid.”

  “What? Finding dirt on the guy? How are we going to do that before we have to meet him?”

  “I have one ace up my sleeve, but there’s a small risk.”

  He stopped pacing again and turned to face me, hands on hips. “What is it?”

  “It’s a who. I think you were deployed when I crossed paths with him.”

  “Who?”

  “Liam O’Sullivan. One of Shamus’s umpteen nephews. The guy’s supposed to be clean, completely out of the life.”

  “No one leaves the mob life,” Leo remarked. “Unless they’re laid up in a fucking coffin. And yeah, Liam? That name doesn’t ring a bell. What’s his deal?”

  “He runs the tech incubator that made the news for selling over a billion in an assortment of startups and solutions. About eighteen months ago, I considered partnering with him on an encryption prototype, but when his name blew up in the business world, I figured his time was pretty much buttoned up.”

  Leo took a seat near me again, dragging out his phone. “Let me check. Maybe I know his face. So you�
��ve met him?”

  “A few times,” I admitted, my eyes on his phone. He keyed in Liam’s name, then lifted the phone for me to see. There was Liam’s picture with a shit ton of news articles.

  “This guy?”

  “Yeah, him.”

  “Shit, the red headed fucker even looks like O’Sullivan.”

  He continued scrolling through the stuff on his phone and didn’t notice I was doing the same on mine. Except I wasn’t looking for details on Liam. I was bringing up his number in my contact list, then sent him a quick text. I told Leo what I did.

  “You know him well enough to send the guy a text?”

  “You know how it is,” I answered. “The tech community is tiny here in New York. Hell, it’s tiny all the way to Silicon Valley. Everyone knows everyone.”

  “Wait, what exactly are you suggesting we do with this Liam character?”

  “Find out if we can trust him, if we can do some kind of exchange. His dirt on his uncle for something I can do for him. He’s got something on Shamus, I’m sure. To stay out of the family business, Liam’s got to be holding something over his uncle’s head.”

  Two messages popped up on my phone at almost the same time. One was from Shamus, instructing us to meet him in an hour at a bar on Sixty-Third. I told Leo about it and pulled up the second text. From Liam.

  Saw the news. I assume I have something you want. Just like I want in on the ZX-7 prototype manufacturing. I’ll call you in ten.

  I smiled. Liam was smart. Harvard undergrad, MBA from Wharton. He could connect the dots easily enough. While there was no mention of his uncle in any of the news articles, the shootout was probably enough for him to put it all together. I hadn’t seen him at the engagement party—the groom was his cousin after all—but I had no doubt he kept up to date on his family. Including who the bride was. And my connection to her father. Yeah, the fucking tech world was small. I wanted dirt, and he wanted an in with my Asian client who was building the latest in tablet technology.

  We were set. I was sure of it.

  “Do you know Liam O’Sullivan well enough to trust him? You’re expecting the guy to turn on his own uncle? Those Irish families are fucking tight.”

  “In every interview he’s ever done, he’s openly stated and restated and stressed he’s a legit business owner. The man’s a broken record on the subject—the press knows who his fucking uncle is—since it needs to be reiterated because his name alone has a stigma that’s fucked up his company’s ability to do business with the more secure industries. He’s been shut out of government and military contracts because of the O’Sullivan name alone.”

  “Sounds like fucking justice to me,” Leo grumbled. Obviously, he believed in karma.

  “Unless it’s all true,” I countered. “Which, judging from this text from Liam himself, it is.”

  “Jesus fuck, Dane. That was fast. I’m still wary. Our lives riding on a text from a work colleague who’s the nephew of the mob boss who wants us dead.”

  I grinned. “Yeah.” I tossed him my phone, let him read the text. “He’s in, too. And it’s go time. Uncle Shamus sent the meeting details. I’ll talk to Liam in the car on the way.”

  Leo held up a hand. “Let me see Shamus’s text and see what the fuck these yahoos are setting us up for.”

  I waited, calm and relaxed as he read the texts. Not much there. In this, Leo would have to trust me. At least while I talked to Liam in the car. Then we could make our plan.

  His eyes slowly rose to meet mine when he was done, and with it, a smile grew and spread across his face. “Fuck. Liam will trade shit on his uncle for some prototype?”

  I shrugged. “He deals in widgets and microchips. He wants nothing to do with bullets and the shootouts like at Harper’s kitchen.”

  He gave a dry laugh, shook his head slowly. “You were right.”

  Yeah, I was. But it didn’t matter. All I wanted was to get us all out of this shit and back to Harper. To be with her without worrying about being shot.

  “Let’s get to that meeting,” I said, walking out of the room and down the hall.

  Harper came out of my bedroom, wrapped in just a towel, stopping at the sight of us.

  “I could get used to this,” I said, eyeing her pink-tinged skin, her wet hair and the way the navy towel barely hid everything I knew so well.

  She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. “What meeting?” she asked, obviously overhearing the tail-end of our conversation.

  “With O’Sullivan.”

  Surprise changed her expression. “You can’t be serious. He just shot up my kitchen and you want to meet with him?”

  “We’ll have enough dirt on him by the time we get there to make a deal.”

  “There? Where’s there?”

  She gripped the knot between her breasts and I sighed. Now wasn’t the time to tug the terry cloth off her and have our way with her again.

  “An Irish bar on Sixty-Third,” Leo said, cutting around me to put his hands on her shoulders. He bent at the waist so they were eye level. “Sugar, you stay here and we’ll be back soon.”

  “What? You can’t be serious! I can’t let you meet with that guy because of me. It’s my fault you’re in this.”

  “And we’ll get you out. We protect what’s ours,” he said, his voice adamant.

  Yeah, we were going to solve this shit once and for all.

  “It’s a trap or at least dangerous,” she countered.

  Leo shrugged. “It’s not a trap since we know about it. As for dangerous? He’s not going to kill us in a restaurant, at least not while he’s there. We’ll be safe.”

  She laughed at that.

  Leo pressed a quick kiss to her lips, then pulled back. “Stay here. I’ll have men at the door.” He kissed her again, this time with a hell of a lot more heat.

  When he walked down the hall, he pulled his gun from his shoulder holster, checked the ammo. As he went to talk to his men, I kissed her next.

  “While I like having you dressed like this, put some clothes on. I don’t want anyone else seeing you the way we do.”

  My fingertip drifted across the upper swells of her breasts.

  “Back soon.” I walked away before I lost control and ripped the towel from her.

  I wanted it all with her. First, we needed to deal with a mafia kingpin and make a fucking deal. And this was no game show.

  Fifteen

  HARPER

  Back soon?

  Seriously?

  I stood in Dane’s penthouse hallway, once again in just a towel, the front door quietly clicking shut behind them.

  I’d heard the guys coming out of Dane’s home office and wanted to hear the latest. I’d spent too long in the shower, savoring the heat and tried to let the shooting incident wash down the drain along with the sticky remnants of the honey and the lube from the...fun kitchen times.

  God, I’d gotten it on with two guys in my kitchen and then gotten shot at. What the hell? I wasn’t like this. I never had wild sex and I never had anyone interested in shooting at me.

  I also hadn’t had two guys who were willing to face a guy like O’Sullivan for me. And it was for me. If they hadn’t helped me the night before, I would have been on my own. They’d be doing their own thing while I’d be...well, dead.

  But taking care of this mess for me? I wanted them to just make it all better, yet I wasn’t five. I had to take care of this myself, and while I showered, I’d thought of a way on my own. Since they weren’t here, I could work on it on my own. Shamus O’Sullivan may wear the pants in the family outside of the house, but Betsy O’Sullivan, his wife of thirty years, definitely ran the household.

  And she was my client. And her husband had shot up my work kitchen. I’d make this right, my way. I couldn’t be a wuss about it. I’d been there, done that in the car. I’d let the guys coddle me. But that wasn’t me. This was my shit, and I was going to deal with it. Once I talked to Mrs. O’Sullivan, I’d talk to her husband. Leo mentio
ned an Irish bar on Sixty-Third. I’d find it. How many could there be? Leo and Dane were going to freak, but they’d just have to deal.

  How I was going to get past Leo’s guys who were posted at the door to protect me, that was something I still had to figure out.

  I would. I’d find a way. I always did.

  LEO

  O’Sullivan had more white than red hair, but the bastard was still a mean fucker, even if he wasn’t so young anymore. In fact, he was deadlier than ever. But sitting across from him at a scarred table in a small Irish pub made him look like the grandfather he was. Nice. Kind. Huggable.

  Until he spoke.

  “You’re not dead.”

  Yeah, the asshole was sharp.

  “Your men are terrible shots, it seems,” I replied, crossing my arms over my chest.

  There were three men standing around the table. Looming. Another sat at the bar and pretended to nurse a Guinness. The only people in the place without a weapon were me and Dane. My gun sat at the end of the bar by the door and Dane never carried. Even the bartender, who was using a rag to wipe down the glossy wood surface, was carrying.

  “Look, let’s get this cleared up and we can go about our day,” Dane said, the obvious diplomat. He was used to making deals using words. I used my fists and that wasn’t going to work now.

  “You and your friend saw something you shouldn’t.”

  “We have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dane countered.

  “You shot the shit out of Harper’s kitchen,” I said.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” O’Sullivan parroted.

  Yeah, this was going well.

  “Fine. We want to live. Breathing’s good,” Dane added. “But we want to do it without having to worry about being shot at. I’m sure we can come to an agreement.”

  Dane pulled his phone from his pocket, and the three goons surrounding us stepped closer. One aimed a gun at Dane’s head.

  He lifted his hands in the air in surrender, his phone in one. Slowly, he placed it on the table, slid it across to O’Sullivan. “Here.”