Reyna stands at the head of the long oak table, silently surveying the seated group.
The lone woman in a crowd of dozens of the most powerful and dangerous men in the world, she looks as serene and genteel as one of the society ladies my mother’s favorite artist painted.
Her long dark hair is wound into a low chignon. Her red dress gently hugs her swollen belly. She rests one hand atop the precious bump that contains our growing child.
“Gentlemen,” she says, looking at each man in turn. “As you all know, the past year has been one of unprecedented success for our families. You’ve proven that working together to achieve our mutual goals is far more advantageous than being at odds with one another. I want to thank you for your cooperation with what some felt was an insane idea.”
She glances over at me, standing against the wall in the shadows. When our eyes meet, it feels the same as it has since the first day. As if I’ve been plugged into a socket.
She smiles. “Or at least misguided.”
I cross my arms over my chest and smile back, though mine is slightly sour.
I wasn’t the only one who told her that trying to work in cooperation with the international syndicates was a barking mad notion. But I am the only one who has to look into her eyes every night, knowing I was wrong.
Not that I should be surprised by that. I’ve learned that there are very few things my wife is ever wrong about.
And those I’m wise enough not to mention.
Reyna turns her attention back to the long wooden table. On the right side sit the heads of the international branches of the Armenian mafia, the Chinese Triad Society, the Chechen mafia, the Jalisco cartel, the Bratva, and others. On the left side are all the heads of the families within the States, including Declan and Kage. Their captains stand against the walls of the room, watching silently, eyes darting and tensions high.
Their leaders might be on board with the idea of a crime syndicate NATO, but some of their seconds-in-command are obviously not.
I’ve got my eye on one especially shady character. The dark-haired Albanian in black leather and combat boots across the room has beady little ferret eyes and twitching fingers. On top of having the energy of a junkie, he licks his lips every time he looks at Reyna.
I’d shoot him in the face right now, but I’ve learned over the past year or so to pick my battles more wisely.
I’ll shoot him in the face later when there aren’t any witnesses around.
See? I can be reasonable.
“In the flash drives on the table in front of you are my proposed plans for the forthcoming year. For obvious reasons, these drives are secured with a password. Each password is unique to its user, and can only be used once before the files are automatically erased. The files cannot be copied or saved, so please ensure you take your time reading through the material before you close out.”
Mirzoyan, head of the Armenian mafia, picks up the small black flash drive in his hand and frowns at it. “When do we get the passwords?”
“You already have them. For each user, the password is the full name of the first man you ever killed.” She smiles gently at the startled men. “You might have to do a little soul-searching if you can’t remember.”
Alvaro, head of the Jalisco cartel and uncle of Juan Pablo, asks, “How could you possibly have that information?”
“Let’s just say I have friends in low places and leave it at that.”
She means Killian, of course. Killian bloody Black, a man who knows everyone and everything and has an ego on him even bigger than mine. A man who “officially” died a long time ago, but is still prancing around the globe practicing espionage and trying to save humanity while looking like some teenage girl’s dirty fantasy.
Seeing the expression on my face, Malek smiles.
He’s working with Killian, too, the big Russian fucker. I keep my expression impassive, though I’d like to gouge out his eyes.
We still have Christmas Eve dinner at Declan’s to get through tonight.
“Moving on. The FBI is becoming a problem. Since the sudden death of the deputy director a year and a half ago, they’ve stepped up their internal efforts to apprehend and incarcerate members of organized crime. Their new director is particularly zealous. He’s working closely with Interpol and other international police organizations to tighten the noose.”
Kage says, “I’ll handle that.”
Declan shoots him a look. Seeing how he’s the one who killed the old deputy director, he probably wanted to have a go at the new one, too.
Reyna says, “Which reminds me, Kazimir. Your contact inside the FBI has been compromised.”
Kage’s dark eyes sharpen, but his voice doesn’t betray anything. Especially his surprise that she’s aware he has a contact inside the FBI.
“And you know this how?”
“Because I compromised him.” Without further explanation, she says to Declan, “Your contact Grayson can’t be trusted, either. It’s an entirely new game over there. The old rules no longer apply.”
Everyone looks at Declan.
It’s an important moment. I can tell by the sudden crackle of tension in the room, the way every man’s focus shifts to him. Of all the men present, Declan has always been among the most admired.
And no matter how capable and intelligent Reyna might be, organized crime is still very much a man’s world.
Except maybe it isn’t.
Because without hesitation, Declan says, “Understood. Appreciate the intel.”
His voice conveys respect, which is all it takes to have the men relaxing back into their seats.
I pass a hand over my face to hide my smile.
Goddamn, my woman is nothing short of astonishing.
All hail the Queen.
Reyna speaks about various business items for several more minutes, then takes her seat. A roundtable discussion ensues. Open measures are argued before the leadership. Votes are cast.
An hour later, they’ve wrapped up and are sharing a toast to each other’s health.
Reyna toasts with sparkling water. Though the doctor cleared her to have an occasional glass of wine, she won’t touch a drop until after the delivery.
And she accuses me of being overprotective. This baby might have a rabid wolf for a daddy, but I’m no match for the tiger mama who’ll rip to shreds anyone who even dares to breathe at Reagan the wrong way.
My wife wanted an Irish name for the baby. One that means “little king” just seemed to fit, even though we’re having a girl.
She’s due on Valentine’s Day.
I don’t want to jinx myself, but I think my bad luck has finally turned around.
“What’s that smile for?”
Reyna stands beside me, looking up into my face. Behind her, the room is emptying. I nod to Declan, then frown at the sight of Kage and Massimo sharing a word near the back door. They part, but not before that prick Massimo sends Reyna a withering glare.
Declan was right. Some lads still aren’t living in the twenty-first century.
But if I catch him looking at her like that again, he won’t be living at all.
“Just happy.” I kiss her on the forehead. “Where’s your coat?”
“On that chair.”
“I’ll get it.”
“I’m perfectly capable of walking over there and getting it myself.”
“And I’m perfectly capable of giving you a smack on that fine arse of yours if you don’t stop sassing me.”
She arches her brows and scoffs. “You’re not the boss of me.”
“No, you’re not the boss of me.”
After an amused pause, she goes up onto her toes, presses her breasts against my chest, and whispers into my ear, “I’m sorry, Maximus Aurelius Tiberius…what were you saying?”
I remember the scene we role played last night, and my dick stiffens. I absolutely love it when she blindfolds me, ties me to an immovable object, and playfully tortures me.
“That I’m an idiot,” I reply, my voice thick with desire.
Laughing softly, she kisses me on the cheek. “How I adore it when we agree.”
Encircling her waist with my hands, I say, “I was thinking that tonight Antonia might need to get tied up for a change.”
“Oh, really?” Reyna squeezes my biceps and blinks up at me coyly.
“Aye. Really.”
“Hmm. Let’s see how well you behave yourself at dinner, then we’ll talk.”
“That’s blackmail!”
“No, that’s incentive. And I don’t want poor Sloane having to mop up pools of blood from her dining room floor on Christmas Eve.”
I say, “We already had this talk, wife. Everyone has agreed to be on their best behavior.”
When she eyes me doubtfully, I add, “Like we were at Nat and Kage’s wedding. Remember that? Nobody got shot.”
“What I remember is a ballroom in Manhattan in February barely containing the collective rage of the Bratva and the Mob as they stared at each other across the dance floor like enemy cannibal tribes eager to dine on each other’s flesh.”
I shrug. “Aye. Gangster weddings aren’t exactly Sunday school.”