Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
I once asked Tyler what our home smell was. He said it smelled like a mix of all of us: Megs’s vanilla, Nicole’s peach, and my brown sugar scents. He said he always felt the urge to take a deep breath when he took his first step in after being away for a long time.
That was how I felt with Miko’s place.
Because that whiskey and tobacco scent that clung softly to him, just begging you to lean in to get a better whiff of it, filled this space.
As for the decor, Miko had taken a page right out of the building’s decor book, making it melt right in.
There were lots of grays and blacks in the open concept space, with lots of warm, golden lights from overhead and under cabinet lighting. There was even a glow under the slight step down into the living area and under the couches themselves.
Everything about the space begged you to kick off your shoes and shrug off all of the too-bright, too-loud, too-everything of the city, curl up on the leather sectional, and just slip away into the peace this apartment provided.
“This is very cozy,” I said when I realized I’d just been awkwardly gawking around.
“Wish I could actually spend some time here,” he admitted, making his way to the kitchen with its modern, streamlined slate cabinets and an elongated island that served as the dining table. The apartment was big enough to allow for eight seats at that island.
Given what I knew about the price per square foot in Manhattan, my mind was working overtime to calculate just how much he might spend in rent. If he didn’t outright own the place.
Being in the mob clearly paid well.
“Are you a capo?” I asked, watching as he turned back from his fancy espresso machine to give me a slight smile. It said I was being inappropriate, but also that he liked it for some reason.
“The books aren’t open right now,” he told me, as if I had any idea what that meant. “But as soon as they open up, I’m hoping.”
“Why do the books close?” I asked as the scent of rich coffee filled the space. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to have more capos? Then more people under them to do more work and bring in more money?”
“There are all kinds of rules in the Family,” he told me, going into the freezer for some ice. I watched as he clinked them into a ribbed glass that brought back images of the 1920s. “By keeping the books closed, it forces those who want to be Made to bust their asses working to prove their worth when it does open. Since they limit the spaces. And if you miss it this time, it could be years before they open up again.”
That made sense, I guess.
“But aren’t you all, you know, family? Like, related?”
“Mostly, yeah. But some of us are more distant than others. And as you can imagine, there are a lot of us. Not everyone can be a capo at the same time. Building new crews of soldiers and associates—that shit brings risks, too many new people becoming connected at once. So the boss likes to stagger that shit to make sure the dust settles like it should.”
“Makes sense,” I agreed as he poured the latte over ice. “Milk?” he asked. “Or I got some vanilla creamer for my sisters that I’m dubious has actual milk in it, but smells good.”
“I’ll try it,” I said. I liked my hot coffee black. But even I had to admit that it tasted better iced when it had some sort of flavor.
“So, now I’ve told you a lot of shit about me and my business,” he said as he handed me my coffee, not making one for himself, just leaning back against the counter and watching me. “Why don’t you tell me what you really do for a living?”
“I really am a courier,” I told him, taking a sip of the coffee mostly as a stalling method. The vanilla was a sweet contrast to the bold coffee. I wanted to down it all in two gulps and demand another.
“Bullshit,” Miko said, his lips curving up, doing all sorts of sexy things to his eyes, making them look all gooey. Or maybe that was the golden lighting. Either way, he looked impossibly hot right then. About ten times hotter than he had on the street when his attractiveness made me want to haul off and slap him.
“I am. I have cards and everything,” I told him, reaching into my wallet to produce one.
“Luxury courier,” he read off. “The fuck does that mean?”
“It means I deliver very, very expensive things to absurdly wealthy people. For example, right before I lifted your wallet, I had delivered the ashes of a beloved dog to some guy who paid me eight grand for the task.”