White Knight (Dirty Mafia Duet, #2)(12)

As Cannon puts a slice on my plate, I blurt out, “I put a keystroke logger on the computer in your office here. Which you don’t use, but you know that. I felt fucking horrible and guilty about it as soon as I did it, and if you want to turn me over to Dom and let him deal with me, I wouldn’t blame you in the least.” The weight of my betrayal lifts but doesn’t go far—it only perches on my shoulders.

Cannon’s hazel gaze sweeps over my face. “You’re not a martyr. Don’t get boring and start acting like one now.” His words are like a twisted balm for my soul, because even with the sarcasm, they soothe me.

He’s not going to hand me over to Dom.

All day, I’ve wondered, because he’s had opportunity after opportunity. The torture of wondering and waiting was enough to make me resign myself to the fact that I’d let him choose my fate.

But Cannon’s right. I’m not a martyr.

I lift the slice of pizza and we both eat in silence, watching each other before looking down or away. This awkwardness kills me, but I caused it. It’s all because of me, and I have to make it right between us. Somehow.

Then an idea hits me.

“Do you want to see the file?”

Cannon’s attention cuts to me. After he finishes chewing and swallowing, he asks, “What file?”

“My father was investigating the Casso family, like I told you. He had a file with photos dating back almost thirty years. I don’t know where he got them or how long he’d been keeping it, but he was fixated on Dom and trying to take him down.” I grab a napkin from the pile left from the other night and wipe my mouth.

“He could have tried, but nothing sticks to Teflon Dom. And Dom has never once mentioned his name, that I know of. I hate to tell you this, but I think you’re looking in the wrong place.” Cannon pulls another slice from the box and pops a few of the runaway toppings into his mouth.

“You really don’t think it’s possible?”

He shrugs and takes a huge bite, so I wait for him to chew and respond.

“Dom’s capable of a lot of things, including murder, but I will say that he never does something without a reason. I don’t have to agree with his methods to know that he lives by his own code of honor, as skewed as it may be.”

I pour wine into both glasses and slide one to him. “Has he ever had a journalist killed?”

He nods his gratitude for the drink, slugs most of it back, and then answers. “I don’t know. I spent a lot of years outside the family interests, keeping as far away from the business as possible.”

“Why’d you come back?” I replace a crust with another slice on my plate and toss the doughy portion back into the cardboard box.

“Into the fold?” He leans back on his stool. It’s the most relaxed he’s looked all day. “Because of Enzo.”

Like I’m seeing Cannon for the first time in a long while, I’m reminded of just how arresting he is. The earth, the forest, and the sky all live in his ever-changing eyes. Then there are the strong muscles in his jaw and the classic way his dark hair is swept to the side.

Before I get too caught up in the mere sight of this man, the one who has shifted so much of what I thought I knew about myself and my life, I shake my head and fight to focus and regain my composure. “Enzo? Why?”

Without skipping a beat, Cannon swipes my discarded crust from the box, folds it, and eats it whole before he replies. “Dom considers him a potential successor. As much as I never wanted to be a mobster, there’s no way in hell I can let Enzo take over. It’d be like letting a kid play with a fully automatic weapon after watching a decade of shoot-’em-up movies and thinking life is a fucking video game. It would be carnage. He wouldn’t discriminate between guilty and innocent. He’d want blood in the streets as a way to cement his power.”

A chill skitters down my spine as I picture dead bodies sprawled on the sidewalks of Hell’s Kitchen. “Jesus Christ. What a disaster.” Suddenly, my pizza doesn’t seem so appetizing, and I put my half-eaten piece on his plate.

“And now we’re at war with the Rossettis, and no one is safe.”

The queasiness spreads to my stomach and arms, and I roughly brush my palms against the sleeves of my jacket, willing the goose bumps forming underneath to go away. “What are you going to do?”

He finishes my slice and closes the box. “Try to defuse it before anyone gets killed.”

“How?”

“By taking out GTR and his dad.”

I stare at the man in front of me—the man I could never imagine pulling a trigger on anyone, unless it was to save his own life or the life of someone he loved. Will it come down to that?

“That sounds dangerous as hell.”

A smile flits over his lips, and for a moment, Cannon looks like a younger Dom Casso. “I may not be a mobster, but I know how to think like one.” Quickly, he stands and puts the leftover pizza in the refrigerator, and when he turns back to me, his eyes are squinted and his mouth puckered. “Who knows, maybe Danger is my middle name.”

The conversation should have been a deep, dark well of emotions and accusations. But it hasn’t been—not even close. And there he is, making a joke to ease the tension that I brought to the table.

I smile, and he winks at me.

“Why are you telling me this? You shouldn’t trust me with anything.”