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“Seriously?” I want to strangle him. The whole freaking day, I’ve been waiting to hear from him, but he’s ignored my calls, messages, everything. Something’s up, and with what has happened in Sicily, it could be anything.
“You didn’t get shot or something yesterday?” Panic grips my chest. Things can go wrong—things did go wrong that night withAlex twelve years ago. For all I know, Matteo got hurt and is keeping it to himself so we don’t freak out.
“No, Burley’s got a bullet in the butt and arm, but I’m fine. Listen?—”
“Fucking hell, Matteo!” I yell into the phone, pacing the room. “It was supposed to be a clean fucking job.”
“It was fucking clean.” His tone is cold and clipped. “But if that psycho’s estate is torched, don’t come ask me if I doused it with fuel. Randazzo had more maggots coming for him than a piece of carrion.”
I sigh as I rub my forehead. Reading between the lines, it was a close call. “Okay. So what did you do today other than ignore me?” I’m not buying it. Something is so off, I can smell it from here. There’s a beat of silence on the other side of the line, and I wait, giving him the opening he needs.
“Caught up with some work I’ve been neglecting,” he replies, brushing over my question. “Are you ready for us?”
In that moment, he sounds so tired, I wish we could all just get the hell out of here and fly home. Skip this whole virgin auction part that’s been destroying me like some flesh-eating fungus. “I’m ready. Party packs and all.”
I glance to where our exclusive party packs are stacked in a pyramid on a console table, each containing everything a man could need for a perfect sex fest: condoms, lube, toys covering a wide range from handcuffs to cock rings, candles for wax play, chocolate body paint, you name it. For her, some Plan B, wipes, sanitary products, thrush and UTI meds. Painkillers.
If we were in the States, we’d include some recreational drugs, but I wasn’t going to fly that shit in for anybody because I don’t want to extend my stay in France for drug trafficking. I’m counting on our guests to bring their own.
“Steph, I—” He breaks off.
“What?” I swear he is pacing like a caged bear.
There’s a long beat of silence and then he sighs, but it’s more a grunt than anything else. “Just meet us at the marina.”
“I’m on my way.” Once I have seen him face to face, I’ll know exactly what’s up.
I kill the call and stride through the suite one last time. The virgin auction side of our online business has a certain standard to maintain or exceed, and this evening will be no exception. I might not condone what will be happening here tonight, but I have a reputation to uphold. For the first time ever, I have a live stream going too. I’ve set it up in the foyer for now but will have to change the camera’s angle as the night progresses. Fuck Don Scalera for getting this creepy on his deathbed.
Flower arrangements give the place a homey, feminine vibe, but the bar is set up with a wide selection of some of the most expensive whiskeys in the world. An off-white circular sectional stands center stage, and on the coffee table, climate-controlled boxes of Cuban cigars await the bidders. Waiters will serve dinner, snacks, and champagne or wine. There’s no limit on the spending here tonight.
I might have gone over the top with this one to soothe my own conscience. Funny how I seem to still have one.
With a sigh, I pocket my phone and check my appearance in the bedroom’s floor-to-ceiling mirror. Stone-colored suit, white shirt, brown leather boat shoes with hidden socks. All very Côte d’Azur. I’ll blend right in.
“Let’s go. Party’s starting,” I say as I walk into the living room where my two bodyguards have been killing time.
Fuck it. I don’t know when that slogan got ingrained inIl Consiglio’sbusiness affairs, but it’s become our umbrella term for anything fromShit’s going downtoBring more beer. You always need more context to read between the lines. In this case, it meansI need to collect the merchandise.
We take the elevator and exit the hotel’s main entrance. My driver has been waitingin the porte cochère.
Ten minutes later, as we approach the marina, I spot the Trapanis’ yacht. We can drive all the way to their berth, but I need a moment to get a grip. I haven’t had what I call aproper workoutsince arriving in Cannes, and it isn’t a good space to be in, physically or mentally. My body is buzzing with unspent energy, and I’m feeling caged, but since arriving in France, the business at hand has taken up all my time.
“We’ll walk the rest.”
The driver parks, and I get out with my bodyguards, strolling along the marina and eyeing the ludicrously expensive yachts lined up. Most names are passable; some are so pretentious, they trigger my gag reflex.
The Trapanis’Onda Maestosatowers over some of the other moored boats.As I crane my neck to get in the full picture of the yacht,rushed footsteps draw my attention.
A dark-haired brunette is high-heeling it down the marina in a navy sundress splattered with red poppies, chiffon skirts so light, the breeze etches out her thighs. She’s so focused on the yacht, she doesn’t see me.
And then she trips, her ankle buckling as her heel hits a small hole in the pavement. Our bodies almost collide, but I steady her with a hand on her arm. Our gazes connect for the briefest moment before she stiffens.
“Merci,” she mutters as she shrugs loose but then continues down the dock as if nothing happened.
Close call, angel.
She seems to be rushing to the next yacht, and for a moment, I appreciate the visual of her ankles in those sandals, the length of her legs culminating in the perfect, rounded ass any man would want to sink his fingers into. Her scent trails in the air. Expensive floral perfume to match the dress.
