Mangled Memory, page 27
I extend a hand indicating the floor is his.
“Your estate and trust are handled through attorneys at Ross, Pinkerton, and Smith.”
Correct. And invasive. Where is this going?
“Your business holdings are with Nettles and Cohen. But there’s one that was done outside of those. That was a red flag.”
What the fuck? “Go on.”
“Twenty-nine months ago, there was a small legal entity established with a firm of Cohen and Johnston. It has you with a managing interest legally and financially, but you’re nowhere on the paperwork for deposits or withdrawals. I don’t know how that’s possible without your permission.”
My temper is rising. I have no clue what he’s referring to.
“So I dug in. Your signature is there on the paperwork for an LLC that I can’t find to have any connection with you. It’s not associated with your Barone Holdings or Barone Hospitality. If you created it, you’ve done nothing since, as far as a paper trail to you, but the money there is growing. Random amounts added and removed over time. Chunks deposited at no precise intervals. Withdrawals in the same manner. The LLC has some legal protection, as you know, but not for a balance of that size.” He sizes me up before continuing, “I take it you didn’t know about this?”
I shake my head, holding in the rage that’s threatening to burst. “What’s it named?”
“CAB, LLC.”
“Go on.”
“That company has dealings with Murphy Enterprises as well.”
Excuse me? “In what manner?”
I grab my phone and shoot off a text.
Me: Ayla and I are going to Queen City Wine Bar tonight for business. Would love to have you swing by if you’re interested.
Dots play and bounce until I see the response.
Cian Murphy: Sure thing. See you later.
Murphy Enterprises will regret the day they fucked with me.
“Where were we?” I turn my attention back to my head of security.
“There’s no love lost between you and Seamus Murphy. How you two would end up entwined with some bank accounts that you have legal responsibility for but no knowledge of doesn’t sit well with me.”
Me either. That’s for damn sure.
“I started not long after all this went down. So it wouldn’t’ve pinged on my radar since I didn’t have any history at that point. And, quite frankly, I didn’t dig that deep into you prior to joining BH.”
Honesty from my half-brother who now admits he came here, in a most curious window of time, after researching me. This gets worse and worse. Who the hell can I trust when every assumed ally has questionable motives?
Focus, Barone. “Is there a way to freeze it?”
“I’m sure. I can’t imagine you own legal responsibility without the ability to shut it down.”
“Do it.”
“If I may, sir—” He extends a hand. “It will be easier to trace if it’s open. We know about it. We can watch it and track funds in and funds out. If you’re willing to assume the risk while we work in the background.”
I grab my phone again.
Me: Can you come to the house?
Liam Murphy: Important?
Me: Critical.
Liam Murphy: Give me two hours.
“I’m bringing Liam Murphy in to work on this as well.”
“Sir?”
“You’ll see.” It’s all I say as I twist in my seat and let my mind spin over scenario after scenario. How has this been something I’ve failed to notice? Surely the IRS knows I’ve filed what I can only assume are fraudulent tax returns. Murphy Enterprises linked to me personally, not Barone Hospitality or Barone Holdings… for how long?
“Can you get the date the LLC was formed, any and all documents, and any EIN?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I want a timeline of events, starting eighteen months prior. More if needed. Let’s look at this for connections I’ve obviously missed.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll work on that straight away.” He pushes up in his chair.
“Murphy will be here in a couple of hours. Come back at—” I look at my watch fighting not to clench my palms into fists. “Two thirty. Bring what you have. Can I assume you found more?”
“Yes, but nothing as pressing as this. I’ll bring the documentation when I return.” Ren leaves the office, and, not for the first time, I’m thankful for his military precision.
I head to my bedroom, finding Ayla asleep on the settee in the corner, a book left forgotten in her lap. I set it on the end table and cover her with a throw before heading to the closet to change into shorts and a tee.
I spend the next ninety minutes running on the treadmill, lifting weights until my muscles are so fatigued they quiver with the last reps, and beating the shit out of a punching bag until my arms are Jello.
My mind is still, but it’s not quiet. The riot of noise wants to push to the forefront, but I force it back and spend all my focus on my breathing, on the physical exertion, and on the pull of tissue where the scar from a bullet lives.
I grab a quick shower before redressing and heading back to my office.
Ayla is nowhere to be seen.
Ayla
At six in the evening, my husband walks into the bedroom, the faint smell of pine and something entirely Christian, invades my senses.
I’m checking my reflection in the mirror. Champagne-colored silk romper with long billowing sleeves that cinch at the wrists. The deep vee in the front stops well below my non-existent cleavage. Nude strappy heels and gold bangles round out the look. The creamy color against my fair skin could wash me out, but the plunging neckline overcomes any trace of that. Besides, my makeup is flawless.
“Hey, Honey,” I call to him in the mirror. “Is this okay?”
The man in question slides in behind me, wraps an arm around me and leans in to kiss below my ear. “It’s better than okay, Princess. You look edible.”
My grin greets me in the mirror. And not for the first time since I woke up do I notice the striking differences between my husband and me. Dark eyes, rich olive skin, black hair. My pink skin tone, red hair, green eyes… my soft spots where he’s hard.
“That’s the goal.”
“To be eaten?”
I hold his eyes in the mirror. “To be consumed.”
“Happy to oblige, wife. That’ll give me something to focus on tonight.” He pulls me into his chest before spreading his fingers wide, just barely brushing a pinky across my mound through the thin silk. “I’ll be ready in five.”
He leaves me, the chill of his absence permeating me from nape to knees. I lean into the mirror and am applying some shimmery peach lip gloss when he returns. His white shirt has the collar popped as he twists and winds a charcoal tie with small bronze and iron flecks in it. When the tie is placed directly below his throat, I turn, dropping his lapels into place and smoothing them out.
“I want to consume you too.” The whispered confession is so intimate I nearly combust.
Heat greets me at my core, and I blush as I stare up into his gorgeous face.
“You’re no innocent, Princess. Why the blush from your tits to your hairline?”
I shrug. I don’t know. “I wish we didn’t have people waiting on us. I wish more that I didn’t look freshly fucked after getting laid because it sure would be nice to alleviate this ache.”
He reaches between my legs and strokes a few times, drawing a gasp from my lips and wetness from my core. “I’ll be thinking of you wet and throbbing all night tonight. You think of me eating your pretty pink pussy until you can’t breathe and then taking my cock until my cum oozes out of you. Deal?”
I squeeze my thighs together, trapping his hand there. “If you keep talking like that, I won’t make it through dinner.”
He kisses below my ear and whispers there, “I’ll be fighting my dick all night too. It wants you. I always want you. And this get-up—” He fingers my romper. “It’s tempting me to abandon business, get on my knees, and worship you the way you deserve.”
His fingers at my core stroke again leaving a wet spot in the silk, and a shiver scurrying up my spine.
By the time we are at the upscale wine bar, my body thrums with pent up sexual frustration, my mind spins on how quickly we can get home, and my face… Well, it tells the man I’m in love with exactly what I’m thinking. Game on.
I’m twirling a cocktail straw around my tongue since no one but Christian is looking when Cian walks in. No sports coat, but high-end trousers and nice shoes round out his starched shirt and cerulean blue tie.
“Hey, Ci.” I lift to kiss his cheek. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I’m surprised Christian didn’t mention it. He invited me.”
Grr. “He did?”
“Yeah. Just a business thing, right?”
“Now’s your time, you know. Network it up.”
He levels his eyes on me. “Sis, you of all people know how much I hate this kind of stuff.”
“Have you made any decisions?”
He shakes his head. “Lose, lose, lose. With options like those, decisions aren’t fast or easy.”
“I disagree. This is only a win-win. I don’t know what the second win is, but you deserve everything in the world. The least of those is a work environment where you’re not compromising your principles.”
“Thanks.” He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “I needed the pep talk.”
“Always here for you, Ci. Now, go take on the room and work it like the successful businessman and entrepreneur you are.”
“That last bit is a stretch.”
“No, it’s not.” I spin him by the shoulders and give him a little shove with my last words. “It’s your destiny.”
He gives me a wink over his shoulder and boops the air.
I sidle up to my husband and slide an arm under his, resting my hand on his hip. He’s discussing something that I'm sure at one point I understood or feigned interest in, but now is snooze-worthy. I love the man, but business is boring. More so than they ever made it out in school. It’s mostly listening to people drone on about things I care little about but have to look interested. And I’m not that great an actress. I palm his ass and let my thumb rub the seam between his cheeks subtly before sliding away with a “Pardon me” to his colleagues.
He snags my hand as I’m walking away and tugs me back into his side to whisper in my ear, “Tonight will be fun.”
I sashay away, making sure he sees it.
Taking a seat in the high-backed banquette, I watch the room.
Christian moves with ease. It may be easy since he literally owns the room, but, somehow, I know this is a practiced skill, one he’s honed over years of owning rooms before he purchased them.
Cian moves easily through the crowd, but it’s different. He chats with people, not flitting from group to group, but sinking into conversations. His genuine nature is obvious and met with similar depth. At least that’s how it appears.
“Mrs. Barone?” A deep voice pulls me from my musings. Ren Gallo stands near the banquette and extends a hand to the side opposite mine. “May I?”
“Please, Ren. How are you? And how’d you get dragged into this?”
“I lead security here since we’ve launched, so most nights I’m here with my team.”
“Has it been a success? The launch I mean?”
He nods deeply, studying me more than I’m used to. “I’m pleased with what we’ve built.”
“That’s great.” I extend a hand as if to tap the table but pull back after more consideration. “After the last year, I’m glad something’s going well.”
“Yeah, the last year has been eye-opening.” His gaze is intense on me, not like he’s checking me out. More like he’s trying to see through me.
“Lucky you.” I take a sip of my spritzer. “For me, it’s mostly been shadows and fog. Well, the last six months anyway. I don’t know which is worse—the not knowing, or the feeling of missing something big but being unable to put my finger on it.”
He taps his fingers lightly on the tabletop. His eyes follow movement in the room before settling on me. “What’s the distinction?”
“It’s subtle. I don’t know… I guess there are the blackout times like not remembering our wedding, not knowing what it felt like to open Aspen & Evergreen, missing significant moments, months of… nothing. But then there’s this…” I rub the pad of my thumb down the cuts in the crystal tumbler, enjoying the pattern’s texture against my skin. “I don’t know, not exactly foreboding, but that’s as good a word as any for something hanging over me, over us… And not knowing what it is or how to avoid it, how to escape this impending— I don’t know how to articulate it. One is definable. It happened and I don’t know it. The other is intangible but looming. It’s the boogie man waiting to jump out from behind a corner, but you don’t know which corner or which room, or what the boogie man looks like.”
His fingers stop their tapping. His eyes never leave mine. They bounce around my face as if he’s looking for the truthfulness of my words and he can’t find an answer there.
“Sorry to be such a Debbie Downer. That wasn’t my intent.”
He shakes his head. “Is the feeling of impending doom, that boogie man… is it a result of the fall?”
“No.” I shake my head, my voice dropping. “It’s a gut thing. Too many things don’t add up. And, Ren, you and I both know this wasn’t a fall.” I turn my temple toward him subtly. “Liam has taken to calling it an attempt on my life. And he’s not wrong. I know it. He knows it. Christian knows it. Perhaps you do too.”
Ren’s head bobs once.
“Then Christian was shot and those people in black were wandering the property. Something’s going on. It’s not my memory that’s at issue. Except for the fact that I don’t have the clues to help solve the mystery.” I snort. “I’m Daphne without the rest of the Mystery Gang trying to unmask the unknown villain.”
Ren smiles and, for the first time, I see the handsome man he truly is. He’s no Christian Barone, but he’s no second fiddle either.
“You have a great smile, Ren. You should do that more often.”
“I have a serious job, Mrs. Barone. It’s hard to be taken seriously if I’m smiling.”
“Well, when you’re not working, do it more.” I tap my open palm on the table in front of us. “And it’s Ayla. Please. At least when it’s us. This Mrs. Barone thing is weird.”
He dips his head in a nod and allows a little smile to play on his lips. “Yes, ma’am.” He tilts his head back to the guests. “I need to get back to it. Don’t hesitate if you need something, okay?”
“Keep him safe.” I look toward my husband working the room. “Keep us safe. That’s all I ask.”
“Of course, Mrs. Barone… Ayla.” He slides from the booth, letting his fingers linger on the table for a moment before he strides away, blending seamlessly into the crowd and disappearing.
35
oozy filling
Christian
Vibration in my trousers alerts me to a phone message. By the third one, I excuse myself from the group of investors and slip through the kitchen into the control room of the restaurant and bar. The monitors here show everything. Watching the players interact without my presence is more telling than being in the room.
The last alert is the motion detectors at home showing Fitz leaving my house, heading back to his residence on the property. The two prior are his movements around the perimeter and accessing the side door.
Glancing back to the monitors, I realize my wife sits off to the side alone, moving her fingers up and down an empty rocks glass, lost in thought. She appears pensive which is unusual.
Ren enters the room and jolts at my presence here. I slide the phone into my pocket and offer, “We’re going to head out. You good here?”
“Yes, sir. Have a good evening.” And for some reason I’m not going to delve into, he starts humming the theme song to Scooby-Doo.
“Goodnight.” I see myself out. To my horror, that damn song gets stuck in my head. That was my dad’s era, not mine. Fuck me. Of all the earworms…
By the time I make it through the throngs of people to my wife, I find her standing off to the side in a conversation with her brother. Sliding my arm around her waist, I lean to press my lips under her ear.
“Gross.” Cian looks away with his grumbling, but his smile belies his words.
“Hush.” Ayla swats at her brother, not even close to making contact. “You know he makes me happy.”
“That I do, sis.” He turns to me and extends a hand. “Good seeing you, Christian. Thanks for the invite, I think I’m going to head ou—” The word dies on his lips as his eyes catch on a woman sliding into a corner booth. “Excuse me.” He doesn’t wait for a reply and moves with purpose toward the other side of the room.
Ayla offers in a loud whisper, “Don’t do anything gross.”
Her brother doesn’t respond.
“You ready, Princess?”
“So ready.” She pushes up to kiss the underside of my jaw. “So ready.”
Me too, baby. Me too.
We’ve nearly made it home when I lift our joined hands and bring them to my lips, kissing her knuckles. It may seem old-fashioned, but something about the classic, gentlemanly gesture reminds me of the manners with which my wife deserves to be treated day-in and day-out.
“Honey, do you think we’re safe at home?” Her fingers squeeze mine as if worried that we’re walking into an ambush.
“I can’t image there’s any place we’re safer, honestly. Why?”
“We can’t rule out that whoever attempted to kill me also attempted to kill you.”
I reflexively reach for my shoulder to rub the faded puckered scar left there.
