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Rather, the calm is foreboding at best.
“Oh, right.” Corbin wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Before I forget, I updated your schedule for today. Lots of meetings. The usual.” He pulls a folded page from his button-down shirt pocket and hands it to me.
Relieved to have access to something familiar amid the chaos Briar causes, I unfold the color-coded sheet and scan the blocks for today. Granger, my least favorite capo, is still pushing back on my decision to shut down trafficking throughout the family. Income is down overall, but of course it is. Nothing sells like people, not even murder.
Do I care?
Absolutely not.
Unlike my parents, I kind of want to sleep at night…preferably in my own bed, when it doesn’t smell like lemon and vanilla.
A low whistle whispers behind me, and I tense before Briar locks her fingers against my shoulder and sets her chin atop them. “Pretty. Really putting the organization in organized crime, aren’t you? Love the rainbow.”
Not for the first time since the little mob boss entered my life, a thread of unsettle collects in my gut. I didn’t hear her stand or see her move. I know I’m not that absorbed in my schedules. The idea that she can silently and effortlessly get behind my back whenever she wants makes my blood curdle.
Clamping my palm to her face, I shove her away. “This is confidential.”
She appears by my other shoulder the moment I’m no longer touching her. Bubbling like a pack of Mentos in Diet Coke, she cocks an elbow atop my head. “That’s a lot of meetings to handle petty squabbles. Aren’t you a little overworked?”
I swat her off my head and mutter, “Veleno has just exchanged hands. This is a normal amount of transitional dissonance.”
Briar cuts a look toward Corbin, who runs his fingers through his cropped, sandy blond hair and focuses back on his food. She hums. “Your own consigliere doesn’t believe that.” Her slender finger taps my schedule. “You should have half this many meetings, more initiations, and thrice the amount of free time to work on tasks that expand your power. Haven’t you heard of the eighty-twenty rule? How have you not worked yourself six feet under already?”
The paper crinkles when I clench my fist, but Briar doesn’t so much as flinch.
She murmurs, “No wonder you’ve not caught the people behind the Maxim Project. With a family name that can get you anywhere, you’ve been too busy cooped up in an office playing CEO for a bunch of volatile children. Make some examples of people, regain fear of disobedience, then attain trust when your orders result in progress.”
My patience cracks, and I stand, scraping the legs of my chair against the pristine white marble floor. Towering over Briar does nothing to pluck the eerie serenity from her expression. It’s too late for her to find me threatening. She already knows I’m too tired for her nonsense and very minimal coaxing sends me to sleep on the couch in my own bedroom. I despise conflict. I would rather go to excessive lengths overworking myself in order to maintain an illusion of peace than risk dangerous ripples. And she knows that. Intimately. Somehow.
It’s unsettling and infuriating.
Pocketing my schedule, I sneer, “Put some clothes on.”
The corner of her mouth quirks upward. “No.”
“Yes,” I growl.
Her arms fold.
My patience shatters. Grabbing her wrist, I plow past Aster and Corbin, toward the dining room exit, wholly ignoring Corbin’s whistle and Aster’s smirk. Despite the fact they are the only two people left in Veleno that I can trust, I’m seriously reconsidering their positions.
The second my bedroom door shuts, Briar says, “You know I’m right.”
“I don’t need you to tell me what I’m doing wrong.”
“Because that’s what Corbin’s for? He’s a sweetheart, but we both know your janky leadership isn’t built on any manner of experience right now. Both Aster and Corbin are your second and third because you know they’re not going to put a bullet in you. That’s it. Their only credential. It makes for a terribly short resume.”
“Yet a invaluable skill set.” Releasing her, I point firmly at the bathroom, where she left her clothing last night. The painted-on outfit might not be much better than my t-shirt, but it does at least have a higher neckline and something reminiscent of pants.
A swear hisses into my head.
She needs to locate real clothes—for the sake of my sanity.
Prissily, Briar lifts her chin and trots into the bathroom, leaving the door open as she gets her outfit off the rack.
She does not close the door when the hem of my shirt rises up her thighs.
I curse and turn my back on her. “Why are you like this?”
