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  As the luxurious carpet cushions my footsteps, two employees seem to come out of the rich wood paneling lining the walls. No, not seem. They do. Panels open like secret doors, and a man heads toward the walk-in humidor while a woman with short, dark hair winks at me as she takes her place behind the previously vacant bar.

  Wait. Were the other employees in on this? Did they know their boss was going to put the new girl through his trial by fire?

  I don’t get the chance to wonder more because Cannon’s long-legged stride stops in front of a panel, and he presses his palm flush against the wood. It opens silently.

  “That’s a neat trick.” My comment comes out as a murmur.

  Silently, I wonder what other tricks they’re hiding within these walls. It reinforces my belief that I’m making the right choice. The Upper Ten is where I’ll find the evidence to take down the Casso crime family and make them pay for what they did.

  “Welcome to the inner sanctum,” Cannon says with a wink.

  No, no. He’s not allowed to look sexy when I’m thinking about putting him in prison. It’s clear Cannon Freeman doesn’t follow the rules, and his unpredictability makes him more dangerous than I expected.

  I follow him down a hallway lined with a deep green-and-gold-striped wall covering. Brass sconces decorate the walls, lending a warm glow.

  After passing several closed rooms, Cannon opens a door at the end of the hallway and motions for me to precede him inside. “Once you’re in, you may never leave,” he says with a hint of a lazy smirk on his lips.

  The comment almost throws me off-balance, but I sense that’s what he’s trying to do, and I keep my chipper expression in place.

  “It must be a great place to work.” My tone matches my expression, and his heavy-lidded stare intensifies.

  Is he trying to get me to screw up?

  As I step inside the purely masculine domain, I finally detect a hint of cigar smoke, mixed with the scent of leather and a tang of lemon that reminds me of furniture polish. A heavy wooden desk stretches nearly six feet across and is fronted by two green leather club chairs.

  Cannon skirts around me to stand in front of the high-backed seat behind it. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves fill the space behind him, filled with enough tomes to make it look like the office of a lawyer, not a cigar-lounge manager.

  “Sit.”

  I smooth my skirt and lower myself onto the supple leather. As soon as I’m seated, he follows suit.

  A gentleman? One would think that’s the obvious conclusion, given his position, but I know better. I know what Cannon Freeman’s true heritage is, and a son of Dominic Casso’s could never be anything more than a savage, regardless of how impeccable his manners are or how expensive his suit is.

  “I have a copy of my résumé and references if you would like them,” I say, not waiting for him to break the silence hanging between us.

  He settles himself into the chair and rests his elbows on the padded leather arms like a king atop his throne.

  “Not necessary. I already reviewed what you submitted. You’re hired, subject to a probationary period for thirty days. Full benefits after ninety. You report to Tanya, my head server. She’ll show you the ropes, and if you can survive her, you’ll do fine. If you can’t, then my instincts were wrong. For once.” He steeples his fingers as he waits for me to reply.

  I stare at him like he’s speaking in code and I need a key to decipher it. Nothing this important can be so simple and easy.

  “You mean . . . you’re hiring me? Just like that?”

  “Based on your impeccable references, I knew I was hiring you before you walked in the door. You start tomorrow. Be here at ten a.m. Dress code is black and white. You’re responsible for black slacks or skirt. Tanya will get you shirts in the morning before your training starts.”

  With that, he rises, and I get the sense that Cannon Freeman’s natural state is one of near constant movement. He seems to have more energy than ten men, and it practically vibrates off him like current from a live wire.

  It’s as if the universe is trying to send me a warning. Be careful how you handle this man. I’ve never been great about heeding warnings, but in this case . . . I know failure will be at my peril.

  I stand and hold out my hand to my new boss. “Thank you for the opportunity, Cannon. I’m thrilled to start.”

  My smile isn’t for him, though. It’s for me. If everything goes according to plan, Cannon Freeman, his father, and the whole Casso family organization will soon be in prison, exactly where they belong.

  You’ve just let a fox into the henhouse, Mr. Freeman. Thanks for the invite.

  4

  Drew

  Me: I got the job!

  Randi: Yasss, girl! I knew you would! Come see me. We’re celebrating.

  * * *

  I stand just outside the entrance of the building that houses the Upper Ten, debating how to respond to Randi’s message. When I don’t reply immediately, my phone vibrates with a text consisting of a row of emojis—two pairs of raised hands offering a double high-five, six champagne glasses clinking together, and three eggplants, which are code for dick.

  Knowing where Randi’s head is at, I’m second-guessing whether I want to meet her at Lambo’s. It’s a popular sports bar a block away from our apartment building, and the place I first met Downtown Randi Brown. She pulls a few shifts there a month, filling in as the owner needs her, and she’s impossibly friendly.

  Normally when I’m prepping to assume a new identity, I avoid making friends who can’t directly help with my case. Somehow, Randi is the exception this time. She’s like the puppy following you home that’s so damn sweet and makes you laugh, you can’t possibly say no. Except instead of being a puppy, Randi is a five-foot-ten-inch Amazon of a woman who has more genuine self-confidence than any human I’ve ever met. Her invitation to come celebrate is just as genuine as she is.

  More emojis pop into our text chat, and I swear it’s her way to sway me while she knows I’m vacillating. This isn’t the first time we’ve played this game. I should go back to the bare apartment I’ve been renting for almost eight months of grieving and researching, and pore over my notes to prepare for tomorrow, but energy buzzes through my veins. I need to burn some off before I’ll be able to focus.

  My thumbs tap the screen before I can talk myself out of it, and not even mostly because she promised she’d tell me even more about the mysterious Cannon Freeman after my interview.

  * * *

  Me: On my way. But skip the eggplant.

  * * *

  Randi: Slow your roll, young padawan. Those are for me, not you. I got three on the line tonight. Can’t wait to reel them all in. Get your ass over here and play wingman.

  * * *

  On a crowded sidewalk in New York City with pedestrians streaming around me like I’m an island in a rushing river, I burst out laughing with great, big body-shaking chuckles. Of course all the dicks are for her. Why would I think otherwise?

  “Nice laugh you got there, sweetheart. Does a man’s heart good to hear it.”

  A rough, gravelly voice comes from just beyond my shoulder, and I spin around and come face-to-face with a man I’ve never met before. But I know exactly who he is.

  His steel-gray hair brushes his lined forehead, but his ruddy cheeks are shaved clean. My first thought is that his posture is too straight for a man who carries a lifetime of sins on his shoulders. He should be stooping, or at least hunching a little from the weight his conscience must bear. Except, he probably doesn’t have a conscience because he’s Dominic Casso. The head of the Casso crime family.

  And he’s staring at me. Fucking hell.

  As my smile begins to fade from my lips, I jam it back into place. Play stupid. Play stupid.

  Pretending like I have no idea who the man in front of me is, I tilt my head to the side as he holds out a tanned hand.

  “I’m Dom.”

  I swallow hard, keeping an iron grip on my guise as I slide my fingers into his and shake his hand like I don’t know he’s washed blood, time and again, from that very skin that touches me.

  “I’m Drew,” I say, hoping the husky quality of my voice sounds like it came from my laugh and not the fact that my heart is trying to hammer straight through my chest.

  “Drew.” Dom says my name slowly, like he’s trying it on for size. Or maybe sizing me up.

  I’m not exactly sure, but it’s a gut-wrenching feeling to be standing in front of the man who I’m ninety-nine percent sure made the call that destroyed my entire world. It takes everything I have not to rip my hand out of his when he doesn’t release it immediately.

  I break his stare, because those piercing black eyes seem to be looking for the window to my soul. Odd, considering Dominic Casso can’t possibly have one of his own.

  “Nice to meet you, Drew. I think we’ll cross paths again. In the meantime, keep laughing, pretty girl.” His assessing gaze rakes over me before he finally releases my fingers.

  I break his stare and step away, wanting to put as much space between us as possible. Only then do I notice the two suit-wearing linebacker-sized men standing a pace away from us, watching the exchange with suspicion on their stony faces.

  Of course he has security. I’m sure if he walked these streets without them, he’d end up dead inside four blocks.

  “Nice to meet you, Dom.” I get the reply out, but it’s a lie, as per usual.

  With a small smile, he turns toward the entrance to the building I just exited and strides away—just like his son did from me when he left me at the bar after rattling off drink orders.

  I finally let out the breath I’m holding when the doors close on him and his two bodyguards. The resolve swirling in my system coalesces not into fear, but into a solid, unshakable vow.

  Keep smiling, Dom. You’re going to need that levity in prison.

  “What took you so long, girl? I thought you flaked out on me!” Randi yells across the bar, causing every single person in the place to gape at me standing on the threshold.

  For someone like me, being the center of attention is a double-edged sword. I used to soak up the limelight, but that was until I realized there were many more benefits to flying under the radar when I chose.

  But as Drew Carson, the limelight won’t jeopardize my investigation. My own stepmother wouldn’t recognize me right now, and that’s only partially because she could never be bothered with paying attention to a child who fell firmly into the category of daddy’s girl. The rest of the reason? She’s too self-absorbed to see through a thick layer of makeup, colored contacts, and a wig, even though she should have my bone structure burned into her brain.

  Summoning my best I got the job, it’s time to celebrate expression, I give Randi a jaunty wave. “It only took me twenty minutes.”

  She hip-checks a guy out of her way to get to me. “Celebration waits for no woman—or man,” she says as she throws her arms around my shoulders and squeezes me against her generously endowed chest. “So proud of you. I knew you could snag that fancy-ass job.”

  “I’m glad one of us was that sure.” I return the hug, and when we break apart, she leads me to a table under one of the dozen TVs lining the wall of Lambo’s.

  “Now sit your ass right here, and I’ll get you some of that girly bubbly shit you like and tell my boss I’m off for the night.”

  “Can you do that?” I ask her, my head swiveling around to look at the packed bar and the two other waitresses rushing around like crazy people.

  Randi tosses her silver-streaked black hair over her shoulder with a pfft. “Of course I can. I fucked him good on my break. He almost busted through the condom because he came so damn hard. BRB, GF.”

  She saunters away, her hips swinging from side to side like she’s on a catwalk instead of a floor sticky with beer and peanut shells crunching under her thigh-high boots. Every man in the place has his eyes glued to her tits or ass, all of which are bouncing with every step she takes.

  I tear my gaze away from her fishnets, booty shorts, and midriff-baring black-and-white-striped jersey, trying to guess which of the gentlemen in the bar represent the three eggplants she plans on taking home tonight. Or not even home. As Randi just proved, she’s equal opportunity when it comes to hookup locations.

  I don’t need to be great at math to realize that would be four guys in one day if she nails the other three, after recounting what happened on break with her manager. But I’m not a judgmental prude, and what Randi does is Randi’s business. She’s exactly what she says—a woman who thinks like a dude and likes to hook up. To each their own.

  When she leaves me alone at the table, the events of today and my encounters with Cannon Freeman and Dominic Casso rush back into my brain.

  I want to say that meeting the elder Casso on the sidewalk had to be dumb luck . . . or divine intervention, but I’m not sure. Is anything that happens with the mob ever truly random? Could they know I’m investigating them?

  I don’t know how they would. I’ve kept my searching completely anonymous. One thing I know is how to cover my tracks, especially digitally, thanks to Ariel, my hacker friend. The pictures I’ve been staring at of both men for months came from my father’s hidden files, and I haven’t take them out of my apartment since the day I moved in.

  I’ve devoted hundreds of hours to researching and building the case I plan to hand over to the district attorney, and after today, I’ve come to one very solid conclusion—those surveillance photos did neither of them justice. Dominic Casso might be turning seventy in less than a month, but physically, you would never be able to tell.

  I wonder if his illegitimate son will age as well?

  The silent question takes me by surprise, and I automatically shut it down. I don’t care how well he’ll age, because he’ll be in prison. Where he belongs.

  My pledge not to think about my new boss and how I could bounce a quarter off his ass lasts about thirty more seconds. Randi sets a bottle of Veuve Clicquot on the table with two glasses.

  “Whoa. Where did this come from?” I jerk my gaze from the classic yellow label to her in confusion, because there’s no way Lambo’s Sports Bar stocks the pricey champagne.

  “Bought it special for you because I knew you’d nail that interview. Now tell me, are you going to fuck him?” She slides onto the tall stool across from me with a grin stretching her magenta-slicked lips.

  “Are you serious?” I’m overwhelmed with the gesture of generosity from a woman I’ve known for only a few months. My last living family member, my stepmother, wouldn’t even text me congratulations if she knew I’d gotten a new job. She can’t be bothered. Something pangs in my chest, and I’m self-aware enough to recognize it as my need for belonging rising to the surface.

  My therapist has gotten rich off ferreting out my issues, not the least of which is being the human equivalent of a chameleon for a living without any solid support system now that my dad is gone.

  “Of course. You deserve it. The champagne and the fucking,” Randi says as she pours the bubbling liquid into both flutes. When she replaces the bottle on the table, she picks up a flute and waits for me to do the same.

  My stepmother would turn her nose up at drinking champagne from anything but the finest crystal, but I couldn’t care less. No more shrink issues tonight, I vow as I lift the glass by the stem. We clink the rims together.

  “Congrats, doll.”

  “Thank you. Seriously, Randi, this is above and beyond.”

  Randi tips hers back and chugs it while I sip. “Psh, no such thing. That’s what friends do. Besides, this shit ain’t free, and the price you’re paying is dirt. Spill. I want to hear all about him. Did he hit on you during the interview? Try to grab your ass? I heard Cannon Freeman is a total dog.”

  I open my mouth to reply, but Randi isn’t really ready for an answer yet. Based on my past experience, it’s more beneficial to let her have her say without trying to interject. You never know what golden nuggets you’ll pick up.

  “My friend Tricia said that he barely let her get in the cab before he had his hand up her skirt and finger-fucked her to orgasm within three blocks. Obviously, it was rush hour, and she’s an easy come, but still. That’s impressive shit.” Randi taps her long, dagger-shaped fingernails against the Formica tabletop. Not surprisingly, they match her magenta lips and are tipped with silver glitter.

  A silent protest ripples through my brain, like part of me doesn’t want to believe that beautiful man is a complete whore. What the hell? I couldn’t care less if he’s a manwhore. It doesn’t matter one single bit to me.

  I sip my champagne and tell myself more information is better than less, and this will be one more nail in the coffin when I bury him.

  I sit back and readjust my position on the hard wooden stool as I prepare to learn more. “Really? Do tell. If my new boss has wandering hands, I need to know.”

  Randi throws her head back and laughs with enough gusto that I’m worried her tits are going to spill out of her tiny jersey.

  “Why is that funny?” I ask, replaying what I just said in my head.

  She shoots me a wink. “The laugh isn’t for you. That’s for the three dicks I’ve got on the line for tonight. Men love to see a woman laugh. It’s like crack for their cocks.”

  Immediately, I remember what Dominic Casso said to me on the sidewalk, and I shut that line of thought down as fast as humanly possible. Please, God, tell me that he wasn’t looking at me as a potential bed partner. That is just . . . Nope. Nope. Nope. Hell to the nope.

  Randi lifts the champagne bottle to top off both our glasses. “And besides,” she says, expertly pouring without a drop hitting the table as she shifts between the two glasses. “It’s not his wandering hands you’ll have to worry about. He’s a dog with a big, wandering dick. He’ll never fuck the same pussy twice. I’ve heard that the last couple years he’s had a new bitch almost every night, and they’re all begging for more, but he doesn’t want anything to do with his own sloppy seconds.”

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