Page 33 of Unlock My Heart

“Maybe you are loyal to a fault; at least tell me to fuck off.”

“Fuck off, boss, but only because you told me to,” he amends.

A chuckle escapes me as I walk around the table and take my seat, and Saint takes his. “Have you made contact with Nic?”

Saint slices his head. “Your cousin said, and I quote, ‘Aw, man, please do not get me killed.’”

Nic’s not on my revenge list. At least, that I know of. My list is subject to change as more rats are flushed from the sewer. “Being that I haven’t spoken to Nic in almost ten years, it’s hard to gauge loyalty.”

“Your cousin has a plausible defense: that your brother forbade anyone in the family from communicating with you,” Saint points out.

“And what a chicken shit of a move by the ‘boss.’” My fist slams the table, the shackles around my wrists only pissing me off that much more.

Saint reaches into his briefcase, pulling out a magazine and sliding it over. “Don’t choke the messenger.”

“What’s this?” I ask wearily.

“Fluff piece on your brother, this year’s Mr. New Orleans.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” The sticky-sweet write-up of the local businessman and philanthropist Angelo Calvani has my blood boiling. “Meet up with Nic again. Find out whose side my cousin is really on.” I toss the magazine across the table.

“You want me to put the squeeze on your cousin?”

“Squeeze him like a lemon plucked off the grove in Capri.” I fall back in my chair, letting out a long breath. Damn, what I would give to have a sip of limoncello.

“Understood. And what of Sienna? You want me to make contact?”

“Not yet. Patience. It’s a virtue, I think.” Would ask Father, but he’s six feet under, looking up at me.

I’ve spent nearly a decade in hell; it seems only fitting that Michele join the good Father there for an eternity. And then I’m getting my girl back, if I have to wrangle her from the Devil himself.

Chapter Eleven

Sienna

The present

“Not the ankle,” I snap.

“Sorry, Mistress.” The client goes back to running his tongue along the arch of my foot, and I inwardly cringe.

To keep my mind occupied, I do the math. Five thousand an hour divided by one hundred thousand. Twenty hours. I can deal with foot fetish client for twenty hours.

The plan is to “discover” some misplaced client invoices and cash left over from Jade’s time as madam. And to make sure my husband doesn’t screw me, I’m keeping him out of the loop, going straight to Nic with cash in hand.

I let out a jagged breath. This will work. It has to.

The client groans against my toes, believing that sigh was for him. I’m not one to yuck someone’s yum, but let’s just say that when this is over, no one is ever touching my feet again.

The timer on my phone chimes, and I shove my heel into the client’s chest, nearly knocking him on his ass. “That’s our session.”

“Thank you, Goddess, for allowing me to worship you.”

“You call that worship? With such a lackluster performance, I haven’t decided if you get a repeat opportunity,” I say in a bored tone.

“Oh, but please, Mistress,” he begs.

Men. They always want what they can’t have. And then once they have it, they don’t know what to fucking do with it.