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  “Your concern is admirable, Detective, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. I manage one of the city’s oldest private clubs, and we have to suspend taking membership applications when the waiting list hits thirty years long.”

  His sharp gray gaze doesn’t buy my spiel, and I’m not surprised. Cole isn’t stupid, and in another life, he’s the kind of guy I might have grabbed a beer and watched a game with. But that’s not the world I live in.

  “You can hold the party line all you want, but when I bring down Dom, you’re going with him if there’s even a shred of evidence that connects you to all the shit he’s buried. No one stays on top forever.”

  “Thanks for the warning. Have a good night, Detective.”

  Cole’s gaze slips to the window Warren rolls up as the officer walks back to his car. Part of me says he’s looking for another glimpse of Drew, and I want to know why. “You too, Freeman. You too.”

  Once Cole has walked back to his unmarked car, I slip into the back seat of the Bentley and turn to Drew.

  “Do you know him?”

  35

  Drew

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  Clinton Cole’s presence is an unexpected surprise. And by surprise, I mean those bad ones, like when you’re standing on the corner hailing a cab and nearly get creamed by a bus swerving to miss a jaywalker.

  Now Cannon’s staring at me, and his question hangs in the air between us like a floating guillotine blade.

  “Know the cop?” I shake my head and feign surprise at the question, even while I hate myself for lying. “Like you, I try to avoid them.”

  “Why did he think he recognized you?”

  “No idea. I just have a familiar face. People mistake me for someone else all the time.”

  Cannon’s gaze narrows. “Is that why you wear the wig and contacts? To blend in? You don’t want to stand out?”

  A million more lies are on the tip of my tongue, but they won’t come out. Instead, a portion of the truth falls from my lips.

  “You’re right. I don’t want people to remember me. It creates too many complications. Please don’t ask me why.” I don’t know why I tack on that last part, because it’s just going to make him ask more questions.

  But I overheard what Cole said to him—that when Dom goes down, Cannon’s going with him if there’s even a shred of evidence that implicates him in Dom’s business.

  That was the exact same attitude I had before, but now I want the opposite. I need to prove that Cannon has nothing to do with the Casso family’s illegal enterprises, because I couldn’t live with myself if my duplicity ruined his life.

  Beside me, Cannon’s chest rises and falls slowly as he stares straight ahead. I would give anything to know what’s going through his mind right now, because I’m only a hair’s breadth away from blowing my cover completely. If he asks me another question, I won’t be able to lie to him again. I’ll tell him everything. The complete truth.

  I glance at Warren in the front seat and hope like hell he’s trustworthy, because this could cost me everything. Including my life.

  When Cannon opens his mouth, I’m already preparing myself, but what he says shocks me.

  “Take Ms. Carson and me back to my apartment, Warren. I’m not returning to the club.”

  I turn and look at him, wondering again what’s going through his brain, but this time, I’d give just about every penny I have to my name to find out.

  For most of the ride, weighty silence dominates the cabin of the car. Cannon says nothing else about Cole or the person with whom he left the drink. I want to ask a dozen questions, but since I don’t want to answer any in front of Warren, I keep quiet.

  I’ll have time tonight . . . although, I’m really hoping interrogation isn’t on the menu, because I can think of a lot of other things I’d rather do with the man beside me.

  Gah. I’m not supposed to feel like this. I had no idea that the myriad pitfalls I would encounter during this investigation would include being so attracted to my target that I can’t even think straight half the time.

  My phone buzzes in my purse, thankfully distracting me from my thoughts, and I carefully fish it out to see the screen. Mom.

  Shit.

  For the second time tonight, I wish I’d just left this damn phone at my apartment like I usually do. Regardless, I definitely can’t answer this call here.

  Cannon glances over at me and down at the phone before I can tuck it away again. “You’re not going to answer?”

  Shaking my head, I quickly hide the screen before shoving it back in my bag. “It’s no big deal. My mom.”

  “Moms are important.”

  “You’ve never met mine. She’ll talk for an hour, and I won’t be able to get a word in edgewise, even to tell her it’s not a good time. And that’s including all the questions she’ll ask that she won’t give me time to answer.”

  When he nods slowly, I can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking about his mom, and my heart breaks for the way he lost her. Even though he hasn’t told me himself, I know the details from the news articles about her death that were in my father’s file. No one should ever have to go through that. I can relate because I feel the same way about my dad.

  As Cannon continues to stare at me, the awkward silence closes in, so I start babbling things I should keep to myself because they’re the truth. “She’s a piece of work. Divorced my dad when I was fourteen because she wasn’t the center of his life. She was jealous of his work and hated coming second to anything. She constantly accused him of sleeping with coworkers.”

  “Did he?” Cannon asks carefully.

  I pause to flip through my memory of all the people I met at the networks as a kid. “Not that I know of, but I guess it’s possible. He was human and fallible, but I like to think he was faithful to her, even though she was awful, especially as the divorce dragged out for almost two years. She fought tooth and nail for every penny she could get, while making it clear she never needed to see me again if he gave her the money.”

  I slip my fingers into Cannon’s, needing the contact.

  “Damn, that’s hard on a kid,” he says, lifting our joined hands to his mouth to press a kiss to my knuckles. “I’m sorry you went through that.”

  “It probably wasn’t as hard as it should have been. I wanted them to split up. I hated living in a house that felt like a war zone, even if the war mostly came from one side of the battle lines in every passive-aggressive way you could imagine. Walking on eggshells got old, really fast.”

  We reach a blocked intersection, and Warren slows down behind the honking cars.

  “So you lived with your dad after?” Cannon asks.

  “As much as I could. He worked a lot but had an awesome housekeeper who would keep me company if my mom was out of town on the rare weekends when I was supposed to be with her.”

  I squeeze his hand as a pang of loss sweeps through me when I think of Antonia. She retired from working for my father when I was twenty and in college, and moved in with her daughter. She died a few years later from complications with pneumonia. My mother had said she probably did it to herself by living an unhealthy lifestyle.

  My knuckles turn white as my hands fist at the memory. Of course, everything that happens to someone else is because of something they did, but when it comes to her, it’s always someone else’s fault. The double standard is maddening, but I’ve learned not to get worked up by it. Why I am now, I don’t know. Probably too many emotions running high.

  Thankfully, Cannon interrupts the downward spiral of my thoughts, saying, “You grew up with money.”

  Immediately, I wonder if I’ve said too much. Actually, there’s no wondering about it, because I shouldn’t have told him any of it. I’ve never had this problem when going undercover before, but Cannon changed everything. I pull myself back and focus on answering honestly, but not in too much detail.

  “My dad did well,” I reply, and then the acid from memories of my mom
pours in. “And my mom had no problem demanding more alimony every single year that he did better.”

  “She didn’t work?” Cannon tilts his head to the side to study me as I loosen my grip on him.

  I choke on a laugh. “No. Never. She would even tell you she was meant to be a trophy wife.”

  His chest rises with an answering chuckle, but it sounds more forced than humorous. “And did she end up being a trophy wife for someone else after your dad?”

  “Oh, definitely not. Because then she would’ve had to give up the alimony he paid her.” We turn a corner sharply to make a light, and I lean into Cannon’s solid shoulder.

  “Ah. One of those.”

  “Yep,” I say, letting the p pop from my lips. “She’s definitely one of those.”

  “Where does she live now?” His voice is back to being whiskey smooth, instead of charged with anger like when we pulled away from the curb.

  “California,” I say, keeping it vague just in case, because Lord knows she wouldn’t be that hard to track down in San Diego. “She hates any place that doesn’t have perfect weather for her to show off her bikini body.”

  We’re closing in on his apartment building, which has my senses heightening. I’m answering way too many of Cannon’s questions. I need to get the hell out of the car—and fast—so I can pull myself together, or else I’m going to spill everything.

  Hell, that’s probably what’s going to happen anyway as soon as I get inside his loft.

  Am I ready for that? Yes. God, yes. But also—hell no. Can I trust him? Truly trust him?

  I want to. More than anything. But I definitely don’t trust Warren, and before my honesty streak gets wider, we need to get away from him.

  As soon as the Bentley glides to a stop, I grab the handle and yank it, shoving the door open as quickly as I can. The suit jacket slips off my shoulders and pools into a puddle on the floorboard of the car.

  “Shit. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to throw your jacket—”

  Cannon’s presence warms me from behind as he cups my elbows with both hands. “In a hurry to get up to my place, Drew?”

  Chills ripple over my skin at his nearness, and I want to soak up the feeling, but hearing my fake name on his lips steals any intimacy of it.

  I want to tell him. I need to tell him. But not here.

  “Just need some fresh air.” Turning to look over my shoulder, I ask, “Are you sure you don’t need to go back to the club?” I reach for the jacket, but Cannon releases one of my elbows and snags it first with his free hand.

  “I’m sure. Trust me.”

  My stomach flips at his words as he turns me in his arms until we’re almost pressed together. His warm gaze searches my face for answers I can’t give him. God, I want to trust him. But would it be the worst mistake of my life?

  Instead of chancing it, I change the subject the best way I know how. I lean toward him and plant my lips on his.

  Cannon doesn’t even flinch in surprise. No, he wraps an arm tighter around me and pulls me closer into his body, taking the kiss deeper and hotter.

  When he releases me, I wobble on the heels of my shoes. “Jesus, how do you do that to me?”

  A glint shimmers in his ever-changing eyes. “I don’t know, but I want to do it again.”

  With one hand on my elbow, he leads me across the street to his building. His hand grips mine like I’m a lifeline, or like he’s afraid I’m going to disappear at any moment.

  Which I could. And should.

  I’m in too deep. I want things I shouldn’t want. But I can’t walk away from this. Or from him. It’s a conundrum of epic proportions, and a situation I’ve never found myself in.

  Before I can make sense of the mess that’s my brain, a short, stout gray-haired man pops out of the pizza shop, calling Cannon’s name.

  “Hey, Geno. They get your oven fixed?” Cannon asks, walking back toward the storefront of the building.

  “Yeah, yeah. I can’t thank you enough for calling in a favor to get them out here the same day. I would’ve been screwed without you.” The old man walks toward Cannon, extending his arm to shake hands.

  “No problem at all,” Cannon replies, wrapping him in a half hug. “They do work at the club all the time. And it’s the least they could do to make sure New York is properly fed and doesn’t miss a day of your food.”

  Cannon’s manner with the old man tells me they’ve been friends for a while. Calling in favors to get his oven fixed? Yeah, that’s exactly what Cannon would do. It reminds me that he said the reason he bought the building was to keep Geno from getting evicted.

  He can’t possibly be doing bad things, right? But even I’m not so naive to believe that life is black and white. We’re all living in the shades of gray, especially me.

  “And who is this stunner on your arm? I don’t believe I’ve met her before. An oversight, I’m sure,” Geno says with a grin aimed in my direction, his New York accent growing thicker to overshadow the Italian.

  Cannon glances down at me with a smile before introducing me to Geno. “This is Drew. I haven’t introduced her to your pizza yet. Definitely an oversight.”

  Geno lights up. “Then tonight is her lucky night. I’m going to make you a feast. Antipasto, calamari, manicotti, pizza, and a little tiramisu to top it off.”

  I blink at the man as he punctuates the end of his sentence with a clap of his hands. “Wow. That sounds incredible.”

  “Geno’s is more than pizza. But only for my special customers do I break out the manicotti and the antipasto.”

  “Don’t let Mr. Steal Your Girl lie to you,” Cannon says with a laugh. “They’re on the menu every day.”

  Geno winks at him. “You know when I make them for pretty girls, I do an even better job. Give me twenty minutes, tops. Then you can come down and bring it up to her. Keep your clothes on until then. She’s too skinny. She needs food before . . . you know.”

  A hot flush burns up my chest because . . . well, it’s not every day that an older Italian-American man talks about you having dinner before you get down and dirty with the guy you’re not even supposed to be entertaining naked thoughts about.

  But now that’s all I’m doing.

  I can’t even make any promises that I’ll last twenty minutes, not once I see the couch where I got my hands on Cannon’s beautiful cock.

  “I’ll be down, G. And you mind your own business, old man.”

  Geno throws his head back, and his thick gray eyebrows wiggle as he laughs. “Get out of here, kid. I gotta cook.”

  We walk back around to the side door of the building, and Cannon unlocks it to let me in first. Once we’re up the elevator and in his apartment, he turns to me.

  “I hope you’re hungry, because whatever Geno says he’s making, count on it being double. And it’s damn good.”

  “He’s really sweet. You can tell he cares about you.”

  With a shrug, Cannon hangs his keys on a hook in his kitchen as I slip off my shoes. “I did what anyone would do. Geno’s a good man, and that business is his legacy.”

  I give him a sideways look as I move across the space to settle myself on a bar stool to avoid looking at the couch. “I can’t think of anyone else who would buy a building in New York to save an Italian restaurant from foreclosure.”

  He moves to a cupboard and pulls out a bottle of wine. “I like Geno. We lived in the building across the street when I was a kid. He always made sure there was a slice of pizza for me when I was hungry after school, or when my mom would . . .”

  Cannon trails off, and I’m grateful he’s shared even this much with me. It’s not hard to imagine a little dark-haired boy rushing across the street for a steaming-hot piece of pizza after school.

  “You don’t have to tell me, but I’d love to hear your story,” I tell him. It’s the most honest thing I can say. I want to learn everything about Cannon. I want to know what made him into the man he is today. What his life was like before. What makes hi
m tick.

  Reaching into another cabinet, he pulls out balloon wineglasses and sets them on the counter in front of me. For a moment, I think he’s ignoring what I said, but he eventually starts to speak again.

  “My mom wasn’t cut out to be Dom’s mistress. She was meant to be someone’s wife.” He sucks in a deep breath, and his wide chest rises and falls. “She was sweet. Wanted to make someone’s life just as sweet as she was.”

  “How did she . . . how did she end up with . . .” I can’t quite get the question out, but Cannon doesn’t need to hear the rest of it.

  “She was at the opera one night. Saved for months to buy the ticket, and made the dress with material she got for free from the fabric store she worked at. She was starstruck by the people, and then by the performance.” Cannon rounds the counter and hops up on top of it beside me. “Ma said she didn’t even care that she was in the nosebleed seats and could barely see, because it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever heard in her life.”

  I lean into the heat of his body beside me as I picture a woman with Cannon’s coloring and hazel eyes, gazing down at the stage as the actors sang in Italian. “That sounds like an incredible night for her.”

  He gives me a short nod as he reaches for the corkscrew. “Should’ve been. But she just had to get up at intermission and splurge on a glass of champagne. That’s when she met him.”

  “It’s hard to picture Dom at the opera. It doesn’t seem like it’d be his thing.” I know I’m making a broad generalization, but it’s still true.

  “Dom hates the opera, but his wife loved it,” Cannon replies, his tone taking on a sharp edge.

  His wife. In all my research and digging, I’ve found very little about Lorena Casso. She was mentioned briefly here and there, but there was nothing in depth. Her family history was difficult to track as well. She was raised in a small village in Italy, and from what I could tell, she was shipped over to the US just in time to meet her husband the week before her wedding day.

  “How did he meet your mother if he was there with his wife?” I ask quietly.