My heart skips a beat.
And in that instant, I know with dark certainty that I’m gazing into the eyes of the man who will tear my family to shreds.
2
Spider
I get only a glimpse of the woman in the window before the curtains fall back into place and she disappears, but the image of her is seared onto my retinas.
Dark hair, red lips, olive skin.
A black, low-cut dress.
Acres of cleavage.
And eyes that glittered silver in the afternoon sun like the flash of coins at the bottom of a wishing well.
She can’t be Liliana, the lass I’m here to meet. I’ve seen pictures of her. She has a sweet, innocent face. A shy, lovely smile.
The woman in the window looks like she’d only smile if she were slitting your throat.
Mindful of the armed guards, I say in Gaelic to Kieran, “I thought the lass’s mother died?”
Standing beside me, he follows my gaze and looks up at the blank window. “Aye. Why?”
“Who else lives here?”
He shrugs. “Dunno. From the size of the bloody place, probably a thousand people.”
She’s not a servant, that much I know. There wasn’t a hint of servitude in those flashing eyes.
She looked more like a warlord about to lead an army of soldiers into battle.
“This way,” says the guard nearest to me. He nods toward an arched opening in the brick wall that leads from the circular driveway into an interior courtyard.
Dismissing the thought of the mystery woman, I button my suit jacket and follow behind the guard as he leads Kieran and me away from the car. The other guard walks behind us. We’re led through the lushly landscaped courtyard to a set of enormous carved oak doors, flanked on either side by towering marble columns.
The main house looms over us, three sprawling stories of beige limestone with elaborate balustrades and scrolled iron balconies, topped by a line of Roman centurion statues gazing down at us from a ledge on the red-tiled roof.
Inside the main foyer, the décor becomes even more ostentatious.
Naked cherubs frolic with hairy satyrs and woodland nymphs in colorful frescoes on the walls. Instead of one drop-crystal chandelier overhead, there are three. The floor is black marble, the carved mahogany furniture is edged in gilt, and my eyes are starting to water from the kaleidoscope glare of stained-glass windows.
Under his breath, Kieran says, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Looks like Liberace hurled his lunch all over the bloody place.”
He’s right. It’s fucking awful.
I have to force myself not to turn around and walk out.
“Ah, Mr. Quinn!”
I turn to my right. A man approaches with his hands spread open in greeting.
He’s fit, of average height, and somewhere around forty. His dark hair is slicked back with pomade. Wearing a navy-blue pinstripe suit I can tell is custom made, a powder-blue tie with a diamond tie pin, a chunky diamond watch, and a gold pinky ring on each hand, he oozes wealth, privilege, and power.
His cologne reaches me before he does.
His smile is blinding.
I hate him on sight.
“Mr. Caruso, I presume.”
He grabs one of my hands in both of his and pumps it up and down like he’s a political candidate campaigning for my vote.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Welcome to my home.”
“Thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.”
He hasn’t stopped grinning or shaking my hand.
Ten more seconds of this shite, and I’ll break those Chiclets teeth of his.
“This is my associate, Mr. Byrne.” I extract my hand from Caruso’s death grip and gesture to Kieran, who inclines his head respectfully.
“Sir.”
“Mr. Byrne, welcome. And please, both of you, call me Gianni. I prefer if we’re all on a first-name basis, don’t you?”
I’d rather blind myself with acid, you wanker.
Kieran politely offers his name. I offer nothing. There’s an awkward pause while Caruso waits, but he gets the hint and suggests we retire to his study to speak in private.
After what feels like a death march through miles of echoing corridors, we arrive at the study. It’s probably larger than the law library at Notre Dame. We sit across from Caruso in a pair of leather chairs so uncomfortable, they had to be designed by sadists.
I haven’t been here ten minutes, and I’m already regretting the fuck out of this.
Until she walks in the door.
Dark hair, red lips, olive skin.
A black, low-cut dress.
Acres of cleavage.
Not only cleavage, but long legs and an hourglass figure that would make any man stupid with lust.
If he wasn’t too busy being turned to stone by the ice in her eyes, that is.
I’ve never seen an attractive serial killer, but I bet this is exactly what she’d look like.
“Mr. Quinn, Kieran,” says Caruso, gesturing to each of us in turn, “this is my sister, Reyna.”
I’m on my feet before I consciously make the decision to rise. Kieran stands, too, murmuring a greeting.
Reyna returns his hello and smiles at him, but when she turns her gaze to me, her smile dies.
She looks me dead in the eye and says, “Good afternoon, Mr. Quinn.”
It sounds like I’m going to eat your spleen for supper.
I’m not sure whether to laugh or ask what her bloody problem is, but go with a neutral greeting instead.
“Good afternoon to you, Ms. Caruso.”
My gaze drops to the ring finger of her left hand. It’s encircled by a small black tattoo, some wording in cursive too tiny to read from where I’m standing. “Or is it Mrs. something?”
I glance back up at her face to find her stony gaze turned to withering heat.
It’s a look that could melt steel. I’ve never seen such hot, wordless fury. It makes the burning lakes of fire in the deepest pits of hell look like cozy bubble baths in comparison.
All that heat and hate she’s blasting at me goes straight to my dick, which throbs in excitement.
Figures. The fucker only ever wants what he can’t have.
When she doesn’t answer my question long enough to make it uncomfortable, her brother answers for her.
“My sister is a widow.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Like a switch has been thrown, all the heat in her eyes cools to ice. “Thank you.”
She turns and walks stiffly to the windows behind her brother’s desk, where she gazes out with her arms folded over her chest, sending a wintry chill over the courtyard below.
I’m surprised the windowpanes don’t crackle with frost from her nearness.
Kieran and I share a look, then take our seats again.
Caruso says, “May I offer you a drink, gentlemen?”
Kieran declines. But I think I’m going to need liquid fortification to get through this meeting, so I accept.
From a bottom desk drawer, Caruso removes two cut crystal glasses and a carafe of ruby-colored liquor I assume is wine. By the time I’ve swallowed a mouthful of the bitter shite, it’s too late.
It sears a path down my windpipe, singeing all my nose hairs in its wake.
Caruso smiles at me with toothy anticipation. “It’s Campari. You’ve had it before?”
A shake of my head is all I can manage. If I tried to speak, I’d retch.
Over her shoulder, Reyna throws me a glance. She sees the look of disgust on my face and quickly turns back to the window, but not before she can hide her small, satisfied smile.
Maybe I’ll burn the house down after I marry the daughter. The neighbors would thank me, no doubt.
Caruso’s still rattling on about the Campari, how it’s famous in Italy, blah blah fucking blah, but I interrupt him to ask when I’ll meet Liliana.
“Oh. Yes. Liliana.”
For a moment, he looks disoriented, like he lost the plot. But he pulls himself together and plasters on his shite-eating grin again. “She’ll be right down.”
He turns slightly toward Reyna for confirmation.
She remains silent but nods.
In his smarmy politician’s way, Caruso says, “In the meantime, Mr. Quinn, allow me to extend my gratitude to both you and Mr. O’Donnell for the visit. I’m looking forward to getting to know both of you better as we join our families—”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I interrupt, setting the glass of foul liquid onto his desk. “After I meet your daughter, we’ll have plenty of time to talk about the future. As of right now, this deal hasn’t been inked.”
“Yes, of course,” he says, his voice subdued. “Please forgive me.”
Reyna turns from the window again, this time to send her brother an outraged, tight-lipped glare.
She’s thinking he’s a pussy for acting so weak. In his own bloody house, no less.
She’s right.
I rise from my chair, gazing at her. “Actually, I’d like to speak with your sister first for a few minutes. Alone.”
Caruso looks startled by the request.
Reyna looks like she’s wondering where the nearest hatchet is so she can bury it in my skull.
I have no idea why this woman hates me so much, but it’s starting to get annoying.