“I am. I’ll pump the milk and throw it away.”
“Like fuck you will,” I heard Graham shouting from his den on the second floor. His home office had cameras with mics everywhere. “Pump it and leave it in the fridge, Dolly. I’ve got plans for that milk.”
I rolled my eyes before staring at my best friend accusingly. “This is the highest level of gross I’ve ever witnessed in a couple.”
“Sweetie,” Dahl pouted, her lips already wet with the wine I poured for us. “I need to talk to you. Let’s get out to the garden.”
Saying I didn’t like where this was going was an understatement. I knew Dahl wanted me to follow her outside because Graham couldn’t see or hear us there and wondered what she had to tell me. Fear tickled my chest as I questioned if my best friend and her precious babies were in danger.
We carried our wine glasses to the deck and sat under the sunshade on white and red patio incliners overlooking her Olympic-sized pool. She heaved out a sigh and closed her eyes, tossing back the majority of the wine in her glass and swallowing. I watched her with my jaw slacked.
“Dahl? You’re scaring the hell out of me. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“It’s Graham.” She cleared her throat, her blue eyes fixated on the pool. I swallowed. Oh, no.
“What about him?” I probed.
“They…” she started, choking back a sob. “The Italians are after his businesses, Jade. They burned down one of his grocery stores, and now this is developing into some sort of nasty underworld war. Graham is lacing up, recruiting people I’ve never met nor heard about from the gutters of the worst neighborhoods of New York, and he’s even bringing guys in from Ireland, for fuck’s sake. He tries to downplay the whole thing, but I know the truth. They want to kill him, and I’m scared for his life.”
I reached for my friend instinctively, placing both our glasses on the floor, and hugged her into my chest. Tears blurred my vision as I processed her words. Italian mafia. Stefano. And while my first priority was my best friend and her little family, the thought of Cole being in danger crept into my mind as well. I tried to silence them, to push them away.
You’re moving. This is nothing. He sees it as a fling, and hell, so should you.
“Dahlia, look at me,” I ordered softly. She pulled away from our hug and sniffed, her whole body shaking with her sobs.
“It’s going to be okay. Graham is the nastiest bastard I’ve ever met.” That part was definitely true. “They don’t stand a chance. They won’t get to him before he gets to them, you hear me?”
She nodded. But she didn’t believe me. I saw it in her eyes.
What was worse was, I didn’t believe me either. And I was afraid the worst was yet to come.
I caught Carter doing it again. Staring at Quinn through her window.
This time she was at home and swaying her hips to a tune no one on the street was able to hear. She was mouthing the words, and he stood across the street and fucking mouthed them with her. I swear I liked the guy, but he was a world-class freak.
After this time, I promised myself I’d sit him down and talk to him about how to court a woman properly, and maybe even use the opportunity to mention that women weren’t cars and didn’t need an internal and external wash before you could get into them.
But one step at a time.
I was walking back home from the gym where I trained Graham’s newest recruits. They were all so young and impressionable, and I didn’t know what we were dealing with exactly, but Carter mentioned a few times that the Italians were a little older and more experienced. They were third generation mobsters, with deep roots and clear codes, while Graham’s crew was mostly a few Irish and American kids ruling the cruel streets of New York, running errands for him.
We were the underdog. We all knew it. No one talked about it.
At home, I went through my usual routine of jerking off twice in the shower before prepping myself for Jade’s shift and wearing my best clothes like I was going to attend my own fucking bar mitzvah. Honest to God, I was beginning to hate myself for chasing her ass like she was the only woman with a vagina in the state of New York.
When I got out of the shower and microwaved my tasteless meal—I had a routine, yes, and this routine took care of my fucking eight-pack—Carter walked into the apartment. I was about to ask him what was up, but he showed me exactly what was up by throwing a fucking whiskey bottle across the room. I watched it shatter on the floor, my nose stinging with the sharp scent of alcohol soon after.
“What in the actual fuck, weirdo?” I asked from the dining table, slurping my food as if nothing happened.
“The Italians,” he barked. “That’s what’s up. The Italians struck again.”
“And yet you still took the time to check out Quinn before you came here,” I couldn’t help but blurt out. I didn’t care about the Italians at that moment. I cared about my friend obsessing over a girl he barely knew. “What’s up with that?”
He stared at me, perplexed, before saying, “Are you following me, you wee shite?”
Oh no, he started with the Irish lingo. That was when I knew he was getting worked up.
“I’m not following you. I come home by foot every day. I noticed you from across the street. It’s pretty hard not to. Are you jerking off to that? Because I’m not sure what the rules are in Northern Ireland, but here, it’s pretty frowned upon.”