10. Michelangelo

Iarranged for us to take the red-eye flight from Los Angeles to JFK that evening in order to have time to get settled before our first meeting with Sundance. According to a message I received from Merrigan, Felice aka Flick would also be in the city, answering the question as to whether we’d have to travel to the UK to meet with her. At least initially.

When we walked up to check in and drop our luggage, the agent looked at my ID, then up at me.

“Happy birthday, Mr. Ripa.”

“Many thanks,” I muttered. Other than her, the only person who’d acknowledged the significance of the day was my mum. Honestly, she was the only person I anticipated would. If she ever forgot, it wouldn’t bother me in the slightest. But, like clockwork, I received a text from her at five in the morning, which she swore was the exact time I took my first breath outside of the womb.

Neither Penelope nor I said anything more about it until we were on our way to security and she rested her hand on my arm. “You must think I’m the worst friend ever. I can’t believe I forgot your birthday.”

“I doubt you knew it to begin with. It isn’t something I tend to acknowledge, let alone celebrate.”

“First, of course I knew it. I just didn’t remember. Second, we will be celebrating tomorrow night.”

“Completely unnecessary. Tell you what. We’ll toast with a drink on the plane, and that will be that.”

“With free drinks in first class? Not on your life.”

I wanted to put my arm around her, pull her close, and tell her the only thing I’d wanted for this or any other birthday since I was eighteen was to spend it with her. And that this was the first time my wish had been granted. But if I said those words, I’d also want to kiss her. Since a chaste peck on the cheek wouldn’t suffice, I kept my hands to myself.

“I’ll make dinner.”

I smiled and shook my head. “Again, not necessary.”

“Since you’ll be at the town house with me anyway, you’ll be forced to participate. I’ll even make a cake.”

While I’d willingly agreed—maybe reluctantly was a better word—to this friends edict, it was already proving harder than I’d thought it would be. Now that I knew the feeling of Pen’s naked body pressed against mine, her taste, her scent, and how the color of her nipples changed when I suckled them, it was all I could think about. What I had to ensure, though, was that she had no inkling of my thoughts.

Once on the plane, I was thankful for the immovable barrier between her seat and mine, given on the flight here, we’d put the armrest up and she was able to sleep with her head on my shoulder.

Presently, any touch from her instantly made me hard as stone. Perhaps with time, I’d be able to mitigate my body’s response to hers. Lessen it somewhat. It seemed hardly fair that my excitement was visible. Not that hers was entirely undetectable.

It was easy to sense when she crossed her legs and squeezed her thighs together. That, coupled with the scent of her desire, made her feelings perfectly obvious. To me, anyway. On the other hand, the evidence of my hunger for her was apparent to anyone whose gaze happened to land somewhere around my midsection.

“When are we meeting with Sundance and Flick?” she asked.

“I’m not entirely sure. I said I’d make contact once we land and are settled.”

Curious as to what Penelope was doing on her phone, I leaned over just slightly.

“Hey, no peeking.

“Butterfly, promise me you’re not going to do anything extravagant.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s dinner, Brand. I’m not having Beluga caviar flown in or anything like that. There isn’t enough time.”

My mouth gaped, and she winked.

“Don’t worry. I know what you like.”

Her. I liked her. More than like, I loved her. A burger would be fine with me as long as I could sit across from her while we ate and sneak glances at her beauty.

Like on our previous flight,Pen slept for the majority of our time in the air but I didn’t. Flick had sent over a brief—as I learned they were called—regarding the Calabrian Syndicate.

It didn’t come as a surprise that they were now considered the largest, most powerful, and most dangerous of the five Italian mafia organizations. Even surpassing the Sicilians.

The criminal organization had been operating in the Calabria region of Italy since the eighteenth century. It was said their narcotics trafficking, extortion, and money-laundering activities accounted for three percent of Italy’s GDP. By some accounts, their annual income was fifty to sixty billion US dollars.

While it was included in the brief, I already knew that, back in their early days, they’d reinvested the money made from high-profile kidnappings into things like drug trafficking, primarily cocaine.

Now, as I also knew, their fingers were in every crime imaginable, with each segment of their business operating like a subsidiary of a corporation, the same way the Sicilians ran their organization.

The Calabrian Syndicate was comprised of approximately one hundred subgroups, called cosche, each of which claimed sovereignty over a territory, usually a town or village. Within Calabria alone, it was estimated that there were six thousand members. Worldwide, that number quadrupled.

According to Flick’s assessment, they were looking to add human trafficking to their long list of criminal activities and had made a move to take over the territories of another crime syndicate operating outside Italy.

The intense scrutiny the other group was under prevented them from focusing as much as they should on business. Which meant they were vulnerable—something both the Calabrians and Sicilians knew how to exploit.

I closed my eyes and rested my head against the seat. If the second half of the mission Doc, Merrigan, and I had discussed deployed, I knew what I’d be walking into as well as what my objectives would be once I got there.

First, to determine which of the two syndicates was behind the forgery scheme that had hit Pen’s gallery so hard. Then use that information as leverage to get the one not responsible to strike back hard, thus crippling their rival.

Once that was achieved, it would be up to me to gain enough of the trust of the capomandamento—aka, the big boss—so other agents could also infiltrate the syndicate deep enough to cripple them equally.

The end goal was weakening the two largest and most powerful criminal entities not just in Italy but everywhere to the point they ceased to function.

If successful, it would literally change the world as we knew it.

My role in the big picture was infinitesimal but vital. If things both moved forward and went as planned, I’d get the information I needed during the first or second auction Penelope and I attended.

After that, I’d leverage what I’d learned, along with the experience and reputation I’d earned during my criminal career, to set the wheels in motion. And when I had, I’d get out. It couldn’t happen fast enough for me. I had no doubt Doc and Merrigan felt the same way.

While Pen’s role would be my entrée into the type of auctions that were invitation only, the more I thought about the mission in its entirety, the more I worried about her involvement.

I’d broached the subject with her once, suggesting she think long and hard about whether she really wanted to do what I’d proposed. However, rather than address that specific point, we’d gotten sidetracked with the friendship pact, as I now referred to it.

Her visible anger was enough then for me to hesitate to bring it up again. Perhaps Sundance or Flick would be able to impress upon her how dangerous the assignment would be and she’d opt out on her own.

I rolled my eyes at my own thought. Penelope didn’t opt out. She stayed the course, accomplished everything she set her mind to, and rarely—if ever—took no for an answer.

“What are you thinking about?”

My gaze met hers when I turned my head. “You.” I sighed. If only I could reach over, cup her cheek, and kiss her. I wasn’t twenty-four hours into my agreement not to, and I was already in agony. “Always you.”

She moved her arm in my direction, then withdrew it as if she was experiencing the same discomfort with our agreement to keep things platonic.

I rested my hand, palm up, on the console between us, and Pen covered it with hers.

“I’m nervous about the meeting. More, the training itself.”

“You’ll likely do better than I will.”

She scoffed.

“I’m serious. You’re far and away more intelligent than I am.”

“This isn’t true, but it’s the physicality that worries me more.”

Once again, I found myself biting my tongue against the first thing that came to mind. Which was, of course, that I’d seen her naked and memorized her every curve. I’d felt her strength in the most intimate ways possible. I predicted she’d outperform me in that arena as well.

She turned her head and looked out the plane’s window. A few minutes later, she’d fallen back to sleep, leaving so much unsaid between us.

Whoever Penelope was textingwith once we were off the plane was none of my business. Truly, none of my fucking business. But the longer it went on, the more she smiled and even giggled after her mobile vibrated and she read what was on the screen, the more I wanted to rip the bloody thing from her hands and tell whoever she was flirting with that she was spoken for.

But she wasn’t, was she? I was in the friend zone, and after the incendiary sex we’d had, I was stupidly arrogant enough to think it meant as much to her as it did to me.

She trailed behind me when we made our way outside to where the driver I’d arranged to bring us into the city was scheduled to be waiting. I fumed as I held the door open for her while she took her sweet time walking the few steps from the terminal to the vehicle.

“Sorry,” she said, looking up at me at the same time she thrust her mobile in her bag. Did I dare hope she’d be courteous enough not to continue her online dalliance on our way?

Once inside, I shifted closer to the door and thought about pulling out a book I’d brought along and reading. Instead, I peered out the window and, in a word, pouted.

“Is there something wrong?” she asked.

“Not at all,” I lied, made easier since I refused to look over at her. “In fact, I think it will be best if I find a hotel for this evening. Tomorrow?—”

“You can’t!” she gasped.

Flummoxed, I simply looked at her, unsure what to say. If anything.

“You just can’t. Okay? We can sort everything out tomorrow, but tonight, I’d really like it if you’d go with our original plan. Besides, we’re celebrating your birthday, Brand.”

“To be honest, I am not big on celebrating. We’re both exhausted. Let’s regroup in the?—”

“No.”

“Pardon?”

“You heard me. No.” She folded her arms in a very un-Penelope way.

“If it means that much to you?—”

“It does.”

I couldn’t help but wonder why it mattered, given the text exchange she’d had over the course of the last twenty minutes. Perhaps she had a pet I was unaware of and intended for me to watch it while she went out with whoever made her giggle. It was cruel, really, that she’d expect me to remain at home with whatever creature I had to care for while she gallivanted on my birthday.

“Brand?”

“What?” I snapped.

“Will you look at me?”

I slowly turned my head, peering down at our hands when she covered mine with hers.

“The town house has plenty of room. If you need time on your own today, I completely understand. As for being tired, what better day than your birthday to spend it in bed, err, um, sleeping?”

“And what will you be doing while I’m napping?”

“I told you. Making dinner.”

“Completely unnecessary?—”

“Would you stop? Gawd, when did you turn into Mister Grumpy Pants?” She had the audacity to huff a little.

Dare I say, perhaps the transition had occurred while she was text-flirting in my presence?

Once we arrivedat the town house, I waited while she disarmed the alarm, then offered to bring her bag in along with mine.

“What are you doing?” she asked as I peered into the various rooms off the foyer, anticipating an animal of some sort might launch itself at me.

“Do you have any pets?”

Her eyes scrunched. “Pets?” She put her hand on my arm. “Brand, you’re delirious. Let’s pick out your room, then you need to sleep.”

“No pets, then?”

She laughed and shook her head. “Come on, I’ll show you around. Just leave those here.” She motioned to the two bags I still held.

“This is the main floor, obviously. Kitchen, breakfast nook, formal dining room, and gathering area, as my grandmother used to call it.”

There was an ostentatious—in my opinion—fireplace, a grand piano, and several places to sit. If I closed my eyes, I could envision someone like Penelope’s grandmother, a pillar of society at the time, endlessly entertaining eclectic groups made up of artists, actors, writers, politicians, perhaps even the current president, in such a place.

“This opens to the garden, which is my favorite part.”

The area we were in was known as Turtle Bay Gardens, a community developed in the 1920s. Rumor was Katherine Hepburn, Bob Dylan, and Stephen Sondheim had all resided at some time or another in one of the twenty original townhomes. As an artist, I used to love to sneak into the gated area and either sketch or paint. There were few places like it in the city. When I moved to Italy, so many of the intimate gardens I came upon reminded me of Turtle Bay.

“It’s beautifully maintained,” I commented, leaning down to smell the rose’s scent.

“I wish I could take credit for it, but even when I am in town, I don’t have much of a green thumb.”

“Who cares for it?”

“A gardener. Someone a few of the other residents use.”

“I could pitch in,” I offered.

Penelope brought a petal from another rose to her cheek. “They’re so soft, and yet there are also thorns.” She looked up at me. “Do you enjoy gardening?”

“I love painting in a garden, so, yes, I enjoy caring for one as well.” Like the night before we left for California, a loud clap of thunder sent us racing inside before getting doused by a deluge of rain. “The windows are amazing,” I commented as she closed the door behind us. They spanned the height of the room, which had to be more than twenty feet. The floors above this one were set back to allow for an angle like a gable to connect with the ceiling.

While the space appeared grand, it was noticeably narrow. The room’s width seemed to be equal to the ceiling height.

“We can put the bags on the elevator or carry them up,” said Pen, motioning to a lift.

My eyes opened wide.

“My grandmother was over ninety when she passed away. I’m sure she would’ve been forced to move if she’d had to take the stairs,” she explained.

“Good point.” I peered inside. “Did she have it installed?”

Penelope shook her head. “They were included in all the townhomes in Turtle Bay when the residences were built.” She motioned to the lift and to the stairs.

“I’ll follow your lead.”

Unsurprisingly, she took the latter.