But if they were really intelligent, they’d be much more afraid of their wives.
I move on to other items, asking Quinn to explain and elaborate. I get an education in the technicalities and logistics of how drugs and weapons are moved across borders, how money changes hands, how law enforcement is used to aid illegal activities or avoided where it can’t be bribed.
By the end of it, I have a good sense of the terms of the contract.
And an even better sense of where it needs to be changed to the Mafia’s benefit.
Closing the laptop, I say, “Thank you. That was helpful. Let’s go see your home.”
“That’s it?”
“Are you the man in charge of contract negotiations?”
Quinn’s expression darkens. “Declan is.”
“Then that’s it. Let’s go.”
He says firmly, “Lass. The contract can’t be changed. It’s been signed already.”
I smile at him. “But the marriage license hasn’t. And without a legal marriage, the contract isn’t binding. I saw that in section eighteen B.”
“Gianni isn’t going to ask for more concessions. He’s already over the moon about what he got.”
Yes, but I’m not. And I find myself feeling quite ambitious this morning.
I say, “We’ll see about that,” and head to the door.
37
Rey
The place Quinn calls home is a penthouse in a skyscraper in the middle of the city that looks as if it were designed by Morticia Addams at the height of a depressive episode.
Decorated entirely in shades of gray and black, the place is dark, sophisticated, and freezing. It’s somewhere a coven of vampires might feel cozy and welcome.
Not a single speck of color enlivens the place. There isn’t a throw pillow, photograph, or plant in sight. There isn’t any carpeting or warm fabrics to soften the space, either. It’s all glass, marble, steel, and cold reflective surfaces.
Looking around the echoing living room, I say, “My, how delightful. If I were a cyborg, I’d plug myself right in.”
“Used to be Declan’s before he got married,” says Quinn, strolling past me with his hands in his pockets.
“So it’s a Mob bachelor pad. That explains its lack of a pulse.”
Quinn turns to look at me. “I take it that means you don’t like it.”
Feeling his gaze on me as I go, I wander into the kitchen. There’s an enormous marble island in the middle of it, accompanied by a host of stainless steel appliances lurking around in the gloom. They glare suspiciously at me. Even the microwave seems hostile.
I don’t want to be mean, so I look around for something to compliment.
“The stove is nice.”
“Tell me what you think of the bedroom.”
He casually strolls away down a hallway. I peek into the enormous dining room and library before I follow, deafened by the sound of my heels clicking on the marble floor, fracturing into a thousand echoes that bounce back to assault my ears.
When I enter the master bedroom, I find him leaning against a wet bar with a book in his hands. To the right of him, a stack of large cardboard boxes rests against the wall.
“What are all those boxes?”
“Your belongings from your bedroom.”
“My bedroom at Gianni’s house in New York?”
“Aye. I told you I’d send the lads to pick up your things.”
I stare at the boxes in shock. “How did they get everything here so fast? And how did they get in the house when we weren’t there?”
He smiles, thumbing through the book. “My friend Bettina the housekeeper let them in. Sweet lass. I think she fancies me.”
“And I think she needs to get fired.”
He chuckles. “It’s not her fault I’m so handsome and persuasive. By the way, this book of yours is very interesting.” He holds it up, displaying the cover, which showcases a busty, half-naked woman swooning in the arms of a muscular warrior.
Ravaged by a Rogue. It’s one of my favorites.
Quinn clucks his tongue. “Did it win the Nobel Prize in Literature? It looks very highbrow.”
My cheeks heating, I demand, “Where did you get that?”
He gestures toward a box with its top open beside him. “One of them was labeled ‘naughty bits.’ So of course I went straight to it. Interesting how dog-eared this book is. It’s even got highlighted sections. Oh, here’s a good one.”
In a theatrical voice, he reads a passage aloud.
“He repeatedly speared his turgid manhood into her velvet channel, excited by her lusty cries of pleasure and the sight of her voluptuous breasts and their taut, rosy nipples lurching in his hands.”
Smirking, he looks up at me. “I had no idea nipples could lurch.”
I’m horrified by the realization that not only has my cherished collection of vintage erotica been packed up and delivered here—which means Quinn’s men had to go through it to pack it up—but also that my cherished collection of battery-powered toys must have been discovered and shipped along with the books.
I picture half a dozen Irishmen in my bedroom, chortling and making dirty jokes as they toss my favorite vibrators around like frisbees.
I might be in danger of vomiting.
“Ah, don’t make that face, lass. I’m sure nobody will think less of you that you enjoy such literary treasures as…” He reaches into the box and pulls out another paperback. “Glazed by the Gladiator.”
When he looks at me with his brows lifted, I say, “In my defense, that one is really well written.”
“Oh, I can imagine. The parts about how he glazed her must be majestic.”
“As a matter of fact, they are. But my favorite part’s on page sixteen.”
As he flips the pages, he murmurs to himself, “She’s got it committed to memory.”
He finds the page and starts reading. After several moments of silence, he glances up at me.
Weirdly excited, I say, “Her husband is a rich old man with erectile problems. And she’s desperate to have a child. So when the most famous, handsome, and virile gladiator in Rome gets arrested and thrown into a dungeon below the Colosseum, she decides to pay him a little conjugal visit to try to get some of his super sperm for a baby.”
“Why was he arrested?”
“Who cares? That’s not what’s interesting about the story.”
“No, what’s interesting is that this scene where a robed mystery woman enters the dungeon and tries to talk her way into the gladiator’s good graces so she can harvest his superior genes for her future child takes place in the first chapter. What the bloody hell happens in the rest of the book?”
“More of that. Except later, he breaks out of the dungeon to find her because he’s madly in love with her by then.”
Quinn looks down at the book. “She had him blindfolded by the guards before she entered the cell. How did he know who to look for?”
“By the sound of her voice.”
He glances back up at me, and now his tone is droll. “I see. So he breaks out of a dungeon to search all of Rome for a woman he’s never seen before. Excellent plan. Your gladiator is an idiot.”
I feel unreasonably smug to inform him otherwise. “But he found her, so he’s not.”
Exasperated, he says, “How did he find her? Telepathy?”
“He was in the market and overheard her talking to the tomato vendor.”
When he stares at me in disbelief, I smile. “So, Maximus Aurelius Tiberius…how strong is your sperm?”
His eyes sharpen. His energy charges. I swear I see his canines elongate.
Setting aside the books on the bar counter, he says gruffly, “If you want to harvest it, Antonia Octavia Flavius, you’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way.”
I sashay toward him, holding his predatory gaze. “But I brought this special terra cotta urn to collect your seed in, gladiator. I’m married. I simply couldn’t betray my wedding vows.”
As soon as I’m within arm’s length, Quinn reaches out and grabs me. He pins my arms behind my back, pulls me against his body, and stares down at me with blazing eyes.
“If your husband is too old to fuck you properly, your wedding vows are already broken.”
I coyly bat my lashes. “But sir, I’m a lady of the upper class. I could never fornicate with a mere soldier. A vicious criminal. A man condemned to death for his crimes.”
Looking at my mouth, he licks his lips. “You can’t have my seed unless you do.”
When I wriggle against him, rubbing my breasts against his chest, he growls. His eyes darken. His growing erection presses against my hip.
I’m not sure who likes this game better, him or me.
I say breathlessly, “You’re supposed to be tied to a chair and blindfolded.”
He looks around the room. Releasing me, he strides over to a desk on the opposite wall and pulls the chair out from under it. He sets it in front of me, sits down on it, whips off his tie, and holds it out.
When I take it, he rips off his suit jacket and dress shirt and flings them to the floor. Stripped to the waist, he sits there staring up at me in fiery intensity with his chest rising and falling and all the tendons in his neck standing out.