Chapter 2

2

JJ

"Well, isn't this civilized?" I pour 24-year-old Macallan into three tumblers, then slide two across the counter.

Neither Sinclair nor Michael—now sporting a black eye—make a move to reach for theirs.

After the puppy successfully defused the tension outside, the women hugged each other again. Summer insisted that Michael and Karma come inside their house. Sterling didn't look happy, but he didn't protest, either. He glanced over his shoulder, and his friends nodded, a palpable air of relief running through the crowd. Muscles relaxed. Jaws unclenched. The men didn't take their gazes off of Michael but they also didn't seem like they were going to throw up their fists at the least provocation. The reception was being held at the Sterling's home in honor of the newlyweds. Everyone followed Summer and Karma into the house. The sisters decided to catch up while the others partook of refreshments of the liquid kind from Sterling's substantial bar. I suggested to the two men that we adjourn to a more suitable location, like Sterling's study, for instance, where we could address the elephant in the room, i.e., Michael's connection to Sinclair's past.

They agreed.

Sinclair didn't seem happy about the fact that I asked to see the inside of his study, but fuck that. Now that the drama has been defused, my interest in the proceedings has waned somewhat. I came with the intention of brokering a deal, but apparently, all it took was the prospect of a puppy losing his balls for the most lethal of men to begin to see sense. On the other hand, the prospect of losing the family jewels is enough for any man to break out in a cold sweat.

I raise my glass of whiskey. "Should we drink to the start of a beautiful relationship?"

Sinclair snorts.

Michael glowers. "It's eleven-fucking-a.m.," he says through gritted teeth.

"It's 5 o'clock somewhere. Besides, the two of you need to chill before you burst a coronary." I curve my lips.

"At your advanced age, I'd say you're the more likely candidate for cardiac arrest," Sinclair scoffs.

"I only have fifteen years on you, ol' chap, and ten on you, I believe," I retort as I nod in Michael's direction.

He firms his lips. "How the fuck do you know so much about us?"

"The same way you know so much about me. Let's not waste each other's time. None of us would be alone in a room with the other if we didn't know exactly who we were dealing with."

Both stay quiet. The silence continues for a beat. Another. I sniff the whiskey in my tumbler.

"A word of advice? Never take your anger out on the whiskey, ol' chaps." I glance between them. Neither makes a move. "No?" I shrug. "Your loss." I raise my glass. "Cheers, or as my old man would say, Cheers to Debeers ." I take a swig of the whiskey and the notes of aged oak and spices permeate my senses. "Hmm," I sniff at my drink appreciatively. "Nothing like aged Macallan to cast a golden glow on all that I survey."

"Do you always talk like that—like you're in a bad British sitcom?" Michael murmurs.

"There are no bad Brit situational comedies, ol' chap. Only cleverly executed, extremely witty, banter-filled shows. Perhaps you were referring to the piss-poor American versions of what passes for comedy programs?"

Sinclair whistles. "I'll drink to that."

"You do realize my loyalties lie with both Uncle Sam and my motherland?" Michael says slowly.

"Given you speak with an American accent, I'd assume no less." I smirk.

"Unfortunately, the Brit sense of humor is the only thing I respect about your culture," he retorts.

"You mean you're not an aficionado of traditional British pub grub, or an eager participant of our quiz nights, or for that matter, the sportsmanship qualities of a game of five-day cricket matches."

Sinclair winces. "Five-day matches? My grandfather, if I recollect, would faithfully attend them at Lords. Me personally? I'm all for the Twenty20 format of the game."

"Cheap entertainment." I wave my hand in the air. "Five-day matches are the true test of an athlete's mettle."

"Or patience," Sinclair coughs.

"Hold on, you mean to say there are cricket matches that go on for five days?" Michael looks at me like I said I cut my pasta with a knife.

"A true gentleman's game." I smirk.

"You're talking to someone for whom football is as sacred as the Santa Maria herself. I am, after all, Italian?—"

"But with American sensibilities," I remind him.

"I attended university in the US." Michael raises a shoulder. "But I'm not here to talk about myself or the Brits' strange taste in sports, am I?" He glances between us.

Sinclair swirls the whiskey in his tumbler. "While I'm with you on the footy, I take umbrage at your questioning our tastes?—"

"Or lack thereof," Michael mutters.

"Heard you, ol' chap," Sinclair drawls.

"Wasn't trying to hide my words, ol' chap ." Michael's lips curl.

"Children, children." I lean forward. "As Michael alluded to, we're here not to insult each other's cultures. Personally, I have no issue with it, but could you do that on your own time? The quicker we can find a middle ground here, the quicker I can leave."

"Getting late for you, old man?" Sinclair makes a show of glancing at his watch. "Time for your Horlicks and silk slippers in front of the fire?"

"Horlicks? " I stare.

"Horlicks?" Michael lowers his eyebrows over his nose.

"It's a malted drink favored by children and senior citizens," Sinclair explains.

I scoff. "Your insults are a clear sign that you're envious of my position in life."

"And what might that be?" Sinclair drawls.

"Experienced enough to know when I need to forge an alliance with the enemy."

Silence descends. The men narrow their gazes on each other.

"It's not enough." Sinclair tightens his fingers around his glass. "You think you can come in here and swear your loyalty to me and my friends and wipe out everything that happened?"

Michael's jaw flexes. A nerve pops at his temple. "Let me make one thing clear." He leans forward on the balls of his feet. "What my father did to you and your friends" —he holds Sinclair's gaze— "was wrong. Nothing I and my brothers can say or do will ever make it up to you."

When Sinclair and his friends were school boys, they were kidnapped by Michael's father and his associate. Yes, I know everything about both of these men, right down to their sexual preferences. I never do business, legal or otherwise, with anyone unless I have them thoroughly researched. So, did I know that Michael's father kidnapped the Seven? Let's just say, it's my business to see patterns where others normally don't. I'd suspected it, but even I couldn't say with confidence that Sovrano Sr. was the responsible party. Not until now, when Michael admits it.

Sinclair's features harden. The muscles on his neck stand out in relief. His jaw moves. He's so tightly wound; I'd be surprised if he hasn't already cracked a molar.

"You have the gall to walk into my house and confess to your father's sins?"

"I am not my father. It's why I'm here." Michael widens his stance. "That, and the fact that Karma wants to spend time with her sister. Much as I'd like to deny it, the reality is that we are linked by family. For the sakes of our wives, we don't have a choice but to find a peaceful resolution."

Sinclair's expression grows even more resentful. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you planned it this way."

Michael drags his fingers through his hair. "When I kidnapped Karma?—"

"—the fuck?" Sinclair moves so quickly, his glass turns over. He grabs Michael by his collar and hauls him to his feet. "You kidnapped her?"

Michael glances down at where Sinclair's fingers are fisted in the front of his shirt. He raises his gaze to Sinclair's face. The men exchange looks of anger and hatred, tinged with frustration. I lean forward to intervene, when Sinclair releases Michael. The Don straightens his collar with a flourish.

"Karma more than held her own. The moment I saw her, I knew life was going to change. I just didn't realize how much. I took her to Sicily, married her, and fell in love with her, but not before she stabbed me with my own knife."

"She stabbed you?" I chuckle.

Michael grins wryly. "Perhaps it's why I fell for her. That woman would never allow herself to be in a position of weakness. She's my other half, my soul mate." Michael surveys Sinclair's features. "A sentiment you're familiar with, too, I believe."

Sinclair rolls his shoulders. "My wife is my world. She's my North Star. The reason for my existence. Without her, I'm nothing."

"And without her sister, I'm nothing," Michael murmurs.

"Doesn't change the fact that your father kidnapped us. He held us for nearly a month. He tortured me and my friends, in ways we can never share with anyone. He changed the course of our lives. He traumatized us as children. We bear the scars of it, and could have well turned out to be the kind of people who would have been a menace to ourselves and others. We were lucky we had each other to turn to. More importantly, we found our better halves—the women who reached in and unlocked the empathy we'd hidden for so long, we'd forgotten it existed. It's thanks to these women that our lives were turned upside down… for the better. If we hadn't met them… If I hadn't met Summer, I'd have killed you as soon as I saw you."

"And I'd have shot you as soon as you socked me earlier." Michael lowers his chin to his chest.

"Then we both have much to live for." Sinclair cracks his neck.

"Much to look forward to." Michael looks at Sinclair in a considering fashion.

"There's one way you can make up for some of the things that happened," Sinclair says slowly.

"We work together rather than against each other." Michael drums his fingers on the counter. "And we'll be strengthened by blood ties."

I glance between them. "Whatever it is, the two of you owe me a part of it."

The two scowl at each other, then at me. Sinclair's glare deepens. "You're a motherfucking cunt."

I reach for a cigar from the box under the bar, and using the cutting tool, snap off the end. "Takes one to recognize one."

Sinclair frowns at the cigar. Sure, it's not my house, or my den, or my cigar box, but considering I'm here to broker peace between these two, they owe me.

"We don't owe you anything." Michael shoves his hand into his pocket.

"If it weren't for me, you wouldn't be here in the first place," I point out.

"Speaking of" —Sinclair grips the edge of the bar counter— "how did you find your way past my security?"

I stare at him.

His scowl deepens. "Which one of my motherfucking employees is on your payroll?" Sinclair growls.

"The same one you sent to spy on him." I jerk my chin in Michael's direction.

"Wait—" Michael swivels toward him. "You have a spy in my team?"

"Have had one for the past three months—" Sinclair turns on me. "How the fuck did you track him down, anyway?"

I reach for the lighter—also Sinclair's—and rotate the edge of my cigar through it.

"Oh, now he goes silent," Sinclair says in a disgusted voice.

"If we're on the same side moving forward" —I switch off the light— "which I assume we are, there should be no secrets between us."

"This sounds like a nightmare." Michael rubs the back of his neck.

"Why do I feel like I'm not going to like whatever it is you're going to say next?" Sinclair glowers.

I glance between them. "I'll tell you who the spy is, on the condition that both of you guarantee his safety."