Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Five

Gen knew she shouldn’t be here. A wave of anxiety surged through every nerve beneath her skin, making her pulse race and her breath catch. She sat rigidly upright, her spine as straight as a rod, eyes fixed on the blur of New York streets rushing past the window. She was unarmed, cut off from Matteo, utterly alone in a car with Emmett O’Brien—the notorious Irish mob boss and the illegitimate son of the very man she was supposed to kill. Her legs crossed nervously, and then a sudden realization hit her—damn it! She was completely naked beneath the trench coat she wore. An inward groan escaped her lips. What on earth had she been thinking? She could have shown up at the prison wrapped in a burlap sack, and Matteo would still have given her that low, approving growl he loved to unleash before claiming her fiercely. Was this really the right moment to play the seductress? Absolutely not. But was it worth it? Without a doubt. She recalled the delicious thrill that had rippled through her spine the moment the handcuffs clicked open.

“Did you have a good visit with your husband?” Emmett’s voice cut sharply through the thick silence inside the SUV.

“It was fine, thanks,” Gen replied curtly, keeping her gaze fixed outside.

O’Brien smirked. “I bet he had a lot of fun peeling that trench coat off.”

Gen glanced sideways, catching him wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on, Gen. Are you seriously going to sit there and pretend you’re not naked under that thing?” His teasing tone made her cheeks flush, a blush that spoke volumes without a word. Emmett burst out laughing, slapping his thigh and shaking his head in amusement. He wiped tears from his eyes as he looked out his window. “I don’t get it. How does that guy manage to get the best women working for him or under him? What’s his secret? What makes you girls fall all over him like that?”

Gen exhaled slowly and stared out at the cityscape, unwilling to entertain the mention of other women when it came to her new husband. She considered herself lucky not to have ever met a single ex or anyone Matteo had been linked to. Turning back to O’Brien, she studied his profile—the sharp, slightly upturned nose, piercing sky-blue eyes that sometimes looked green in the right light, and golden hair that shimmered with red highlights near the roots. She thought of Matteo—darkness compared to Emmett’s light—with his deep brown hair, golden-brown hazel eyes, and the crooked notch on the bridge of his nose.

“You have very smooth knuckles, Emmett,” Gen observed thoughtfully.

His gaze shifted from the window down to his hands resting on his thigh. “Huh?”

“It’s the first thing I notice about a man,” she continued. “Matteo’s knuckles are rough—really rough. I noticed them the first time we met. When he gripped the steering wheel driving us home, his knuckles were cracked and bleeding.” She smirked quietly to herself. “They’re always like that—swollen, bruised. Even when they’re not bleeding, the scars are obvious. Two of his fingers don’t quite line up right. Three knuckles on his right hand look uneven, like he broke them and jumped into a fight before the bones had healed. He uses his hands to make a point, to vent his stress, to fight for his family. It’s like a neon sign to anyone thinking of crossing him—he’ll protect what’s his with his own damn hands. People see the rich Italian playboy first, but then they see his knuckles.”

“Knuckles, huh?” Emmett’s expression was skeptical.

Gen met his eyes with a steady, confident look. “But yours are smooth, just like Michele’s. Not a single mark. Your nails are perfectly manicured…”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with a man getting regular mani-pedis,” Emmett said with a laugh.

“No, you’re right. Nothing wrong with that. But it makes a woman wonder… who’s getting their hands dirty in your organization, because it sure isn’t you.”

“So you’re saying I should get into more fights?” Emmett asked, holding his hands up to examine his knuckles.

Gen chuckled softly. “I’m just saying… to a woman, there’s something about a man with broken knuckles who only ever shows her the soft side of his palm.”

“I never knew you were so poetic,” he teased.

She shrugged one shoulder. “You asked. That’s my answer.”

Emmett’s phone buzzed, and he fished it out of his pocket with a chuckle, typing a quick reply.

“Is it Galante?” Gen asked, trying to read the screen without leaning too close.

“Nope, it’s my second,” O’Brien replied.

“Still mad he couldn’t come along?” she pressed, glancing out as the car entered the neighborhood where Matteo’s safehouse was located.

“Yeah, she’s pissed.”

“She?”

Gen swallowed hard as they passed Matteo’s safehouse, silently hoping Emmett wasn’t as perceptive as he seemed.

“Maisy,” he said.

That caught Gen’s attention. “Maisy is your second?”

O’Brien laughed, eyes fixed on his phone. “Surprised? There’s a reason she’s always with me, Gen. She keeps my knuckles nice and pretty.” He blew on his hands for dramatic effect.

“Wow, I had no idea. Why aren’t you using her as an infiltrator?”

His gaze flicked to her, but his fingers kept typing. “Who says I’m not? She’s been great at keeping me updated on you and Matteo.”

“Don’t,” Gen warned, knowing Matteo would probably knock O’Brien out cold if he heard him use his first name.

“Why?” Emmett asked. “Heard he announced it to everyone in the cell block the other day. The cat’s out of the bag.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, looks like my contacts are better than yours after all.”

The car slowed, and the driver announced they had arrived. Gen’s eyes lifted to the brick townhouse where several of Galante’s men waited at the door. She took a deep breath, silently praying this meeting would go smoother than the last. As she reached for the door handle, Emmett’s hand shot out and stopped her. She turned to see his face—any trace of humor had vanished, replaced by a fierce determination and the ruthless intensity of a man who ruled a violent, illegal drug empire.

“I get your desire to prove yourself, Mrs. Accardi. Your name carries weight now, but let me be clear…” His grip tightened on her wrist, fingernails biting into her skin. “I won’t be the man who got Accardi’s wife killed and started a war. My knuckles may be smooth, but you don’t stay in my position without getting your hands dirty. I. Know. More. Than. You. If I say jump, you jump. If I say duck, you duck. If I say shut your fucking mouth, you…”

“Shut my fucking mouth, I get it,” Gen cut in.

Emmett smiled and released her wrist. “Is your burly bodyguard tracking you?”

“No,” she answered immediately.

He narrowed his eyes, studying her face carefully.

“I’m on your side, Gen.”

“Are you?”

“More than anyone else in that room will be,” he said, pushing open his door and stepping out.

O’Brien waited on the curb, adjusting the tie on his black suit as Gen approached. He moved ahead of her, and she watched as the guards took turns frisking him for weapons. Strange—why check someone they worked with? The guards then waved her forward and gave her a thorough pat-down, far more professional than the rough search at the jail.

Together they stepped inside, greeted by a maid who would escort them through the house. The hallway was lined with towering oil paintings, each over five feet tall, depicting various couples. It only took two paintings for Gen to realize they belonged to the Galante family. The final portrait showed Michele, his wife, and a young Conor. O’Brien paused, staring up at the painting.

“Looks like something’s missing, don’t you think?” Gen prodded, hoping to crack the calm, arrogant mask he wore.

“Does it?” he replied, tilting his head. “The brushwork’s terrible, and they really didn’t do the broad justice, but overall, it’s pretty good for the kind of flashy, snobbish art rich silver-spooners like to own.”

He shrugged and moved on, while Gen tried to steady her nerves. The maid opened a heavy wooden door and stepped aside for them to enter.

“Galante! Thanks for calling me in. I’m looking forward to getting down to—”

“What the hell is she doing here?”