CHAPTER 7

The morning after a job was generally rough. I'd cut myself pretty good going through the shattered window, and my leg still ached. I was healing, but my wolf had used up most of her reserve keeping us hidden on the way back to the house. Then I'd had to explain to Rob why I'd been seen and shot at when I had been sent for the express reason that I was the only one who could get in and out unseen and not shot at.

He hadn't been happy about Darius' interference either, though he had let out a sting of creative curses that I filed away for later use.

In the end, though, he'd gotten his papers and I'd gotten paid. He'd even thrown in a pat on the shoulder, which I hadn't expected.

Our arrangement was simple. Five years ago I had asked him to help me get vengeance. He'd nodded and asked what I had to trade in return. Desperate, I'd given him information I'd never shared with another being before, wolf or human, besides my parents. I told him about my wolf's skills, and he'd immediately sent out wolves of his own to investigate the fire, and brought me into the folds of his operation.

In some ways dad had been right to warn me away from him, the Mafia kingpin of Boston. He ruled his empire with an iron fist, and every deal he made he came out on top. But he'd told me what he was, and given me the choice to walk away. I'd lose his help with my revenge, but my life would be much safer.

I'd chosen to stay.

He'd also given me some information about my father, free of charge. Turns out he'd once been Rob's second, like a brother, Rob had told me, and the sadness on his face when he did so was more authentic than anything I'd seen when begging my pack for their help. Apparently, dad had just up and disappeared, and Rob had no idea why. He'd found us, ten years later, but dad hadn't been forthcoming then either, and he'd pushed Rob from the house without giving any explanation for his disappearance.

So there was that fun mystery.

I stretched and slipped from the luxurious king-sized bed that took up one wall of the room Rob kept for me in his mansion. On the surface he was a legitimate business tycoon, with his hands in all sorts of pies. The public knew no better and those on the underside of Boston who did were too terrified to snitch. That, and he was very good at making sure none of his less savory activities could be traced back to him.

I spent the night at the mansion once in a while, after missions, particularly if I'd been spotted and Rob wanted to ensure there had been no fallback from it. I didn't think any of the Southtown Terror goons had recognized me, but Darius certainly had, and there was no predicting his motives or actions.

Padding across the floor I opened the doors to the extensive walk in closet and then sighed.

Racks filled with dresses, expensive women's fashion that I couldn't even pronounce and even fancier shoes met my gaze. Everything in my size. I didn't know what Rob was up to, but I suspected it was some sort of bribe. I sighed and dug through the racks until I found a pair of jeans and something that passed for a t-shirt. The rest of my clothes were at my apartment, a tiny unit with a shared bathroom I'd found for the cheapest amount of rent possible. The neighbours were rough and the space was cramped, but it was mine.

I decided on the boots I had worn the night before, despite the blood smudged on the heel, and made my way out the door and down the stairs.

"Boss is looking for you," Jacob told me when I reached the main floor. He was a wall of a man, thick and tall, like some kind of linebacker, but bigger and a little more feral. Which was why he was often stationed in the main entrance as the first line of defence should trouble come knocking.

"Now, or can I eat first?" I asked, trying to wipe away the horror that was the staircase. Rob had bought the mansion recently, because he was, and I quote, 'wanting to expand'. The previous owner had been some sort of wannabee artist, but the only interior design concept they seemed to be familiar with was painful pops of color. So the stairs themselves were carpeted in blues and oranges in the exact same shade as the furniture that sat in the main entrance hall. Rob had a designer working on taming down the aesthetic, but the poor woman could only work so fast.

"He said at your convenience," Jacob told me, and then gave me a funny look.

"What?" I looked down. Nope, I remembered all my clothes and they were covering all the important bits.

"Your eyes are doing the thing again."

I blinked. The thing was what we'd come to call the glossy darkness that sometimes seemed to take over. I didn't notice a difference, but according to my fellow mafia underlings it was disconcerting.

"Oh. Sorry," I managed, trying not to stare at him directly.

"Raven," Anthony called, stepping out from the hallway that led to the kitchen. "I was just coming to check on you, Martha is in a flap because your breakfast went cold and now she has to remake it." He smiled winningly at me.

"I'll bring her some *nduja* and she'll forgive me."

Martha was an Italian born and raised, and she desperately missed what she'd often describe as 'quality ingredients', and especially* nduja*. She'd come to America on pack business more than twenty years ago, and promptly fell in love with Hector, who, at the time had been second of the Void, the name of the mafia oriented pack at the time. There was no name now, not since Rob had taken over and the pack had risen to the top of the power hierarchy.

Anthony laughed, and a bit of warmth spread through me.

When I'd first been folded into Rob's operations Anthony had been one of the first wolves that had caught my eye. He was classically attractive, with great facial structure a tall and broad frame and wavy blond hair that could make any girl weep. He also had piercing blue eyes and a hint of a Scottish accent. So yeah, he was the whole package.

But I'd been gun shy. My last crush hadn't ended up well, so I'd avoided him for the most part, which he'd taken offence to. I was just coming to allow myself to believe his efforts were genuine.

"I hear you *ragazza*, you do not make impossible promises to an old woman," Martha's warning came down the hall.

I withheld a snicker.

"I'd best get to breakfast or she'll never forgive me."