5. Valentina

Chapter 5

Valentina

R onan’s got an ulterior motive.

There’s no way he appeared at my apartment out of nowhere and decided suddenly my job was a good idea. No, he didn’t bring me bagels—two dozen, way more than necessary, but enough to keep me fed and going for a week if I keep them frozen—plus milk and cream cheese for no reason.

Unfortunately, I’m not in a position to worry about that. Which is why I force myself out of bed early the next morning, shower and get dressed in something casual and comfortable, before heading over to Bloody Strike.

It looks closed, but the door’s unlocked. I head inside, expecting six shirtless meatheads to turn in my direction all at once like last time—but find only a single shirtless meathead instead.

Ronan’s off to the right of the ring. A heavy bag is suspended from the ceiling, and he’s working at it like he’s got a grudge to settle. Sweat trickles down his finely shaped chest and shoulders as he strikes, again and again, each time with perfect form.

The man’s a specimen. I’ll give him that. He’s annoying and selfish, and I’m still annoyed he broke into my apartment for fun, but still. He’s incredibly attractive.

“I’m pretending this bag—” Punch, punch, punch . “—Is Marco’s fucking face.” He pulls back, grinning at me, and wipes a wrist across his forehead. I resist the urge to look at his muscular forearm.

I fail and glance at it: yep, really sexy, the asshole.

“I’d rather not talk about him.” I march over to the bar and plop my bag down on top. Ronan drifts over, wiping his chest and arms with a towel. Again, I succumb to temptation and glance at his chest as the towel presses against the muscle, and I wonder what it would be like if my lips were there instead.

Blasphemy. He put something in those bagels. That’s the only explanation for these horrific thoughts.

“I can’t blame you.” He goes around behind the bar. “Want some coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

He starts brewing. “All right, baby girl, since you’re so keen on this job, why don’t you walk me through how it’ll happen?”

I make a face, because I really don’t like the way he calls me baby and darling, but if I have to suffer that small indignity to get ten percent of this score, then I’ll suck it up. “I have it mostly mapped out. Here—” I pull a binder from my bag and flip it open.

He stares at me. “Is that paper?”

“Yes, I’m pretty sure you need paper in order to write things down.”

The coffee maker gurgles as he squints. “You realize we’re doing crimes , right? And writing down crimes is how you go to fucking jail?”

I roll my eyes at him and turn the binder around to face him. “It’s in cipher, first of all. Just a simple code my father came up with, and at this point I can read it without having to figure it out. But aside from that, I’ll throw it in the river the second we’re done with this. And yes, I’ll weigh it down so it sinks, you prick.”

He rubs his face but doesn’t argue. Once I’m sure he’s not going to keep making a fuss, I run down how I envision this operation will go down. As I talk, he pours coffee, adds milk, paces around and drinks it, starts doing pushups and sit-ups and insists that yes, he really is listening, and for a solid half hour he doesn’t sit still once.

I swear, it’s like explaining math to a toddler. He grunts from time to time and squints at my phone when I show him a picture from the surveillance videos I took, but mostly he’s wandering around the room.

“Would you please sit still for ten minutes and go over this with me?” I say, totally exasperated and out of patience.

He grimaces and forces himself into a stool. “I don’t do sitting around very well.”

“You’re the head of your family. Don’t you have to do planning stuff all the time?”

“There are constantly people coming and going,” he says, waving a hand in the air. “That helps. And fuck, I didn’t say I liked all that shit.”

I snap the binder shut. “You have to be the most absurd mafia Don I’ve ever met.”

“Not a Don,” he says, holding up a finger. “That’s an Italian thing.”

“Whatever. You know what I’m saying.”

“I’m more of an active member of the Hayes Group, if you know what I’m saying.” He walks over to the heavy bag and punches it. “We aren’t all great intellectuals such as yourself.”

“Clearly,” I mutter and chew on my thumbnail. “All right, how about this. For fifteen percent, I’ll do all the planning on my own.”

He hits the bag again and glares at me. “How about you stick with the original ten, keep working here until you have a good plan, then run me through it?”

That’s not as good as getting another five percent, but I can see when I’m being greedy. We come to an agreement and he goes back to working out while I buckle down and fill in the details. Timing, manpower, equipment, how to deal with potential law enforcement, potential problems and unforeseen circumstances. I’m as thorough as I can be, and for a little while I forget all about my terrible life.

I like doing this. Heck, I’m good at it. At least, I think so. My father said I have a brain for this work and was always encouraging me to get more involved in the day-to-day operations of a big crime network. That wasn’t really easy when I was younger, and now I wish I had applied myself even harder. Maybe I could’ve learned more before it was too late.

Instead, I’m stuck glancing over at shirtless Ronan getting all sweaty again while he punches stuff.

But eventually, I’m finished, and he mercifully sits still for long enough to hear me out. He makes some suggestions, which aren’t terrible even though it pains me to admit it, and in the end we have a workable plan.

“All right baby, now how do we seal this deal? Should we go for a kiss? Maybe a lap dance?”

“How about I get up and walk out of here without kicking you in the crotch and we’ll call that a win?” I give him a sweet smile as I stuff my binder back into my bag. It has fishing weights glued onto the interior covers, and it’ll drop like a stone when I toss it into the water on my way home.

“Wonderful. I look forward to making some money with you.”

“Just don’t fuck it up, okay?”

He pretends to look hurt. “I could never, not with such a thorough mastermind running the show.”

I flip him off and walk away, and when I get outside I realize I’m smiling, which is unacceptable. I wipe it away, remind myself that Ronan’s an annoying dick, and stomp back to my car.