Page 19 of Black Sheep
My lungs burn, and I realize I’ve forgotten to breathe. I quickly suck in oxygen as unobtrusively as possible and try to think of something to say that isn’t going to piss Cannon off more than the hard lines of his jaw indicate he already is.
“We haven’t been properly introduced.” He holds out a hand with heavy gold rings on three fingers. “Dominic Casso.”
My teeth clamp down on the inside of my mouth, and I’m terrified of what’s going to come out of it next if I don’t get my shit together.
Stay cool. Act cool. Be cool.
After repeating my mantra and gathering myself, I slide my hand into his. “Drew Carson.”
“Carson. I don’t know any Carsons ... anymore.”
Oh good Lord, does that mean the Carsons he knew are all dead?
“Well, you do now,” I manage to say in a cool, collected tone.
“It’s a pleasure.” His gaze sweeps down the front of my uniform shirt and tie. “But you aren’t meant to wear a tie, sweetheart. Dresses. Red ones. That’s what you need.”
“She’s a waitress. They don’t wear red dresses, sir. Besides, the Rossettis are waiting, and we should go.”
Cannon speaks from behind Dom. I can practically hear him grinding his teeth through the entire exchange because I’m wasting their time when they should be meeting with their rivals right now.
But Dom doesn’t seem to care about being late, and he doesn’t spare a glance at his son. No, his complete attention is firmly fixed on me, and so intently that I feel like he’s memorizing every plane and angle of my face as he tilts his head. Through it all, he keeps his unrelenting grip on my hand.
“When I get done here, Drew, you and I are going to get to know each other a little better.”
Someone might as well have dumped a bucket of ice water down the back of my shirt, because it takes everything in me not to tremble at his statement.
Fuck. Me. This. Is. Bad.
“I need a Pappy Van Winkle and a Macallan neat,” Tanya says, breaking the silent spell holding me captive.
Thankfully, Dom’s gaze swings over to her and he releases my hand. “Tanya. You’re looking good. You keeping your sister in line?”
As soon as I’m free, I shrink back two nearly imperceptible steps, and for a reason I will never understand, I glance at Cannon. His darkened gaze drills into me.
Fuck.Now he looks like he wants to kill me.What was I supposed to do?No one trained me for the situation where I’d have to fend off advances from a mob boss.
“Drew, take your break in the kitchen. You need to eat.”
At midnight? He’s trying to feed me again at midnight?
Dom’s chest bounces and falls with laughter, and I have a feeling it has nothing to do with whatever Tanya is saying right now. He knows his son wants to keep me clear of him, and I’m praying to whoever will listen that it won’t make Dom even more persistent. Because he’s a man, and they always want what they can’t have.
“Yes, sir.” I slip away from the bar and make a beeline to the kitchen, kicking myself for calling him sir again. Then again, that’s the least of my problems right now as three sets of eyes follow me until I disappear behind the swinging wooden doors.
Hell. What do I do now?
11
Cannon
Ican barely concentrate on the meeting, because I’m fucking seething. I know what it looks like when Dom’s picking out a new mistress, and he’s giving every indication that Drew is the next woman to fill that role.
Who knows what the fuck happened to Elisha, the last piece of arm candy he paraded around. Actually, nothing has probably happened to her—yet. If Dom thinks he has Drew on the line, he’ll send Elisha packing to Europe with access to a bank account that’ll last her the rest of her life, so long as she never sets foot in New York again.
But he’s not fucking doing that with Drew. Not a goddamned chance in hell. It doesn’t matter that I’m not ready to dive into the reasons behind my rage over the idea yet either.
This isn’t the first time Dom has taken an interest in a woman who he shouldn’t even be looking at—namely, my mother. However, I’ve also never successfully stopped him from doing anything he wanted. It would be like delivering an order to Genghis Khan and expecting to walk away with your head still attached to your body. It’s not something anyone is willing to try. Not since he shot Gianni Rossetti in the head at point-blank range twenty-five years ago.
