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Kane reaches for my sandwich and folds the wrapper around it. “Get dressed. We’ll take this to go.”
“Excuse me?”
“We’re taking a field trip.”
I glance at the dark kitchen. “My staff arrives soon.”
“I’ll have someone stay behind to inform them and lend an extra hand if necessary.”
My eyes narrow. “Is there anything you didn’t think of?” I snap, sounding way more irritated than I actually feel.
Kane grins. “Only one way to find out.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m in clean clothes, with brushed teeth and a washed face, on the way to Sheepshead Bay in the back of Kane’s black Escalade, with our old friend Stepan at the wheel.
The outside world looks about how I feel. Half-deflated New Year’s balloons bounce along a frost-covered fence near Prospect Park. A man in pajama pants walks a beagle wearing gold antlers, looking green and queasy in the face.
But that’s normal. I almost envy him.
My no-longer-normal life involves sitting beside a crime lord whose mouth I know a little too intimately.
I look over at him.
Kane is in the other captain’s seat, focused on his phone. He jumps between encrypted text threads and email, firing off messages as fast as he can.
In profile, he looks less like a living, breathing person and more like a moody statue in a darkened museum exhibit. His forehead slopes into a straight nose; his mouth is severe, except for the curl that appears whenever an email displeases him.
His black shirt is open at the throat, showing the rose-gold chain and a wedge of tattooed skin. One shoulder rests against the leather seat. The other bunches up whenever he sends something, tendons flexing beneath his cuff.
He’s too pretty. Men who threaten kneecaps should not have eyelashes like that.
Mob bosses should come with warning labels and unfortunate pores.
Maybe dandruff. Something humane.
He catches me staring without turning his head.
“See something you like, Lilah?”
I face the window. “I’m evaluating your screen-time habits.”
“Concerned for my eyesight?”
“Big time. Blue light could damage your ability to menace people.”
His mouth curves.
I feel a little thrill in my stomach.
We turn onto my street. I recognize the house at once. Pale siding in need of a fresh coat of paint. Bare hydrangeas clawing at the snow.
What I don’t recognize is the garbage truck idling at the curb. It’s not garbage pickup day, and even if it were, it’s a holiday.
I also don’t recognize the two men in dark work clothes who are currently emerging from my house.
They’re carrying a long piece of wood down the front steps. One has the footboard. The other holds the dark oak headboard with its leaning left knob.
My heart stops.
