Playing with Piper (Menage MfM Romance Novel) (Playing for Love Book 3) (19 page)

W
hat a fucking disaster
.

Once Piper leaves, I shower, get dressed and head to the office. I know Piper’s sorry about what she said, but right now, my priority is Wyatt. He’s my friend, he’s hurting and knowing Wyatt, he’s going to act like nothing’s wrong.

“Is he in his office?” I ask Celia as I walk in.

She nods. “He’s asked not to be disturbed.” Her face twists into a worried frown. “Is everything okay?”

“It will be,” I say grimly, knocking on the door and pushing it open.

“I told Celia I didn’t want to see anyone,” Wyatt says as I walk in.

“I wasn’t aware that included me,” I retort, sitting down on the other side of him and leaning back in the chair. “How are you?”

“Fine.” His voice is clipped.

“Bullshit.” I look around, and sure enough, the office is so spotless that I could eat a meal off the floor. “The last twenty-four hours have been crazy, and you’re only human. I’m your friend. Talk to me.”

He gives me an expressionless look but doesn’t say anything.

“Wyatt,” I tell him with a sigh. “I have shit to do. I’m not going anywhere unless you talk, but for the sake of my to-do list, I’d be really grateful if you stop stonewalling me.”

That causes him to crack a smile. “Okay. I’m pissed with my dad, with Stone Bradley, and with Piper.”

“In that order?”

He contemplates that. “I think so,” he replies.

“Well, that’s good. Start with your dad. Tell me why you’re angry with him.”

“Seriously?” He gives me a dry look. “I need to explain why? You were there.”

“Humor me.” I’m sure I’m driving Wyatt insane, but I’ve learned from experience that it’s extremely helpful to peel back the layers to get to the underlying cause.

Wyatt looks exasperated. “Yesterday,” he says, “my father deliberately came into
Piper’s
to embarrass me. He showed up drunk, because he knew it would bother me. Throwing up on the table? That was a classic Jack Lawless power play.”

“So you’re angry that he out-maneuvered you.”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Wyatt stares into space. “I just want him gone.”

“Wyatt,” I tell him quietly, “You keep saying that, but are you sure that’s true? If you really want him gone, all you have to do was pay him off. What would it cost you? A million? Two? Five? You have more than enough money.”

“What are you saying, Owen?” Wyatt doesn’t sound angry anymore. He just sounds tired.

“I’m saying that I’ve never heard you talk about your mother’s hoarding to anyone. Hell, we were friends for ten years before you told me. Yet you told Piper. Maybe you’re ready to face your childhood, not hide from it.”

He gives me a thoughtful look. “I don’t want to pay my father,” he repeats. But the words don’t have the same venom they usually do. “I need to come up with a plan.” He sips at his coffee, his brow furrowed.

“You do that.” I rise to my feet. “And call Piper.”

“I’m still annoyed with her,” he replies mildly.

“She apologized. Get over it.”

“Don’t you have a to-do list?” he counters. “Perhaps you should get to it.”

S
tone Bradley is waiting
for me in my office. “Are you sure you aren’t looking for Wyatt?” I ask him.

He shakes his head. “It’s taken a few weeks, but I finally have something on Michael O’Connor for you.”

Piper’s landlord. I’d almost forgotten I’d asked Stone to investigate his connections with the Westies. “What do you have?”

He frowns. “It was very difficult to find the details, but Michael O’Connor’s driver’s license was first issued thirteen years ago. As was his social security number.”

A chill travels up my spine. “He’s part of a witness protection program.”

“Sure looks like it.”

When Michael O’Connor had pointed a gun at me, my first thought had been that he was mixed up in something crooked. What if that wasn’t the real reason he’d been on edge that day? What if, even after thirteen years, he’s still afraid?

Is this what you want to become, Owen?

I thank Bradley for his efforts, and see him out. I pop back into Wyatt’s office. “I’m going to see Michael O’Connor,” I tell him. “I want to persuade him to install the security equipment we need.”

He looked up at me. “Really?” he asks, his eyebrow raised.

I shrug, unable to lie to him, but also unwilling to tell him the truth.

I still haven’t been able to make contact with my uncle. I left a message on his voicemail on Monday. It’s Friday, and there’s been no reply.

I need to find out if Seamus Cassidy is in New York. If Michael O’Connor is so afraid of the reach of the mob that he’s carrying a gun, even after thirteen years, then he might know something useful.

Then there’s
Emerson’s
and
The Pear Tree
. I can’t just drop the ball on those while I try and find out if Mendez is lying to me.

M
ichael O’Connor looks
wary when I knock on his door. It’s early. The restaurant isn’t open yet and Piper’s nowhere to be seen. It’s better this way. I don’t want Piper wondering what I’m doing talking to her landlord.

“Mr. O’Connor?” I hold out my hand. “I’m Owen Lamb. We met before?”

“Yes, you’re the guy that likes to root through the trash.” He shakes my hand. “What can I do for you?”

I’m the guy that likes to root through the trash. Sigh.
I’m great at first impressions.
“Can I come in?” What I’m going to say can’t be said in the corridor of a building where we might be overheard.

He nods reluctantly and steps back to allow me entry. I walk into his sparsely decorated apartment, taking it in. No pictures hang from the wall. The couch is a faded navy blue monstrosity that has seen better days, and the coffee table is littered with empty pizza boxes, beer bottles, and takeout containers. “Sorry about the mess,” he says, noticing my gaze. “I live alone. Cleaning doesn’t seem worth the hassle.”

Wyatt would hate this apartment.
“No worries,” I say easily. “I wanted to talk to you about Piper’s restaurant.”

“What about it?”

“Her lease needs to be renewed,” I tell him. “And the restaurant needs some basic repairs done that are part of your responsibility. The tiles in the bathrooms are chipped, and I’m pretty sure the emergency features aren’t up to code.”

He shrugs. “The rent’s below market.”

“Fine. If that’s the trade-off, then we’ll draft up a ten-year lease for you to sign, and make the repairs ourselves.”

“I can’t do a ten year lease,” he replies with a sigh. “I’m going to sell the building in the next few months and move away from New York.”

I stiffen. “Why?” I demand, abandoning the pretense that I’m here about Piper’s bathroom tiles. “What do you know? Are the Westies back in Hell’s Kitchen? Is Seamus Cassidy in New York?”

He goes deathly white, and staggers where he stands. “Who are you?” he asks hoarsely, his eyes wide with fear. “What do you want from me?”

Fuck. I don’t want Michael O’Connor to have a heart attack. “Calm down,” I say hastily, trying to sound reassuring. “I’m not here to hurt you. You were in witness protection, and so was I.”

“What?” His mouth falls open. “Why?”

“The Westies murdered my family seventeen years ago.” I swallow the lump in my throat.
The pain never fades.
“Seamus Cassidy ordered the hit. My real name is Owen McKenna.”

He stares at me. “McKenna. I know the name. Cian McKenna was going to testify against the mob. The night before the trial, the family was killed.”

“Not all the family.” I can close my eyes and see the bodies of my da and my ma, my little sister Aileen. All dead. I force the words out. “I lived. I’m Cian McKenna’s son. They changed my name and they put me on a plane, and I ended up in New York.” I give Michael O’Connor a serious look. “Your story is probably quite similar, isn’t it?”

He goes to his refrigerator and pulls out two bottles of beer. Opening them, he hands me one before taking a large gulp from his own. I refrain from pointing out that it’s well before noon. “I was lucky,” he says. “I was single. No wife, no children. I didn’t have anything to lose.” He gazes into his beer. “Except my life.”

“What happened?”

“It was in Limerick,” he says. “I was the bookkeeper of the Ryans.” His mouth twists wryly. “I was also a double agent. When I testified, I took down the gang. All the leaders were sentenced to lengthy jail terms. Of course, the Ryans put a price on my head.”

“And so the cops sent you to America. Why did you come to Hell’s Kitchen? You could have gone anywhere.”

“I was homesick,” he replies. “America was new to me and Hell’s Kitchen was as close to Ireland as I could find. It was dangerous, but the Westies were gone from this neighborhood by then, and the Ryans had never made it to America.”

“Are they back?” My voice is urgent. If the Westies are operating in this neighborhood again, and they find out who either of us are, they will take us out, and they will take out our loved ones as well in a warning that they are not to be crossed. In my case, Piper and Wyatt. I cannot allow that to happen.

He puts his beer down on the coffee table and leans forward. “I keep my ears to the ground, McKenna,” he says, looking directly at me. “But I can’t be certain of anything. I just don’t know.”

The silence stretches between us. “I need to leave here,” he mutters in the end, his voice low and nervous. “I can’t stay in New York if the Westies are back. I’ve been thinking of moving anyway. I’m tired of Manhattan, of the snow and the crowds and the noise. I want to find a beach in Florida. Maybe even a woman, after all these years.” He smiles sadly. “I could never bear to get involved, you know? It never seemed right to bring a woman into my life. I couldn’t risk it.”

Piper asked me once why I didn’t have any ex-girlfriends.
This is why.
When there is a price on your head, you aren’t free to fall in love.

“You’re going to need to sell the building.” The germ of an idea is taking root in my head. Wyatt and I can’t buy this building, not without setting off all kinds of red flags at Grant and Thornton. But we have friends, and two of them are real-estate magnates. “I might have a buyer for you.”

I
expect
the kitchen to be empty when I make it into the restaurant, but to my complete shock, Josef is there already, chopping a head of celery in swift, efficient motions. When he sees me, he straightens his shoulders. “Chef Jackson,” he says, sounding surprisingly formal, “I want to apologize for yesterday.”

I don’t want to deal with this. Right now, I’m too heartsick about this morning, too filled with self-hatred at my cruelty to Wyatt, too fearful of the possibility that the two of them could be right about my parents.

“Okay,” I say, moving past him to go to the refrigerator so I can get started on prep.

“No, Chef Jackson,” Josef contradicts me. “It’s not okay.” He swallows nervously. “May I explain?”

I sigh inwardly. “Sure.”

“I started working at
Aladdin’s Lamp
twelve years ago,” he says. “Your aunt hired me. I was fresh out of culinary school, and I knew what I wanted to do. I didn’t want to work at a large restaurant where I would be a cog in the machine. At
Aladdin’s Lamp
, I had a chance to cook my native cuisine, as well as work in a small bistro. It was a dream come true.”

His words make me pause. Josef’s never shared his dreams, but as he speaks, I realize how close his vision is to mine. He wanted to work in a small restaurant and cook the food he was passionate about. Me too. That’s what
Piper’s
is all about.

“Then,” he continues, “Your aunt left to go back home, and she never came back. She appointed a company to manage the restaurant. For a while, I thought that was going to be good for me. I was the head chef. I believed that I could make this place great.”

I feel a pang of sympathy for Josef. He’s been here twelve years, and for most of those years,
Aladdin’s Lamp
has limped along, losing more money with each passing year.

“But I quickly realized,” he says sadly, “that I was the head chef in name only. I wasn’t allowed to make any changes to the menu. I begged for better equipment, and my requests were rejected. The management company didn’t care about
Aladdin’s Lamp.
It was easier to do nothing and bill your aunt for the losses.”

Aunt Vera had covered the losses while she was still alive, and
Aladdin’s Lamp
had slowly been run into the ground. It was only after her death that things had changed.

“It’s hard to walk away from a well-paying job,” he confesses. “And there was no doubt, I was making better money than most of my peers. All I had to do was shut up, take my money, and stop caring about my work.”

Poor Josef. Overwhelmed with money problems, I’d been too busy to try to get to the root cause of what was bothering him.

“When you started, I was briefly hopeful. You added new items to the menu and you seemed to care.” He grimaces. “But after a month, I came to realize it wasn’t enough. The restaurant was in dire straits, and you didn’t have enough money to save it.”

He’s right. Had it not been for Owen and Wyatt, I would have failed.

In less than two months, they’ve turned things around. Last night, George Nicolson and Anita Tucker had praised my food. Maisie Hayes had commented on how much the place had improved. I’d made it through the first round of
Can You Take The Heat?.

“What was yesterday about?” I ask Josef. “With the changes Wyatt and Owen have made, we have a real chance of success. You know that.”

“I can’t explain it,” he replies. “After so many years of failure, things were finally going to turn around. I panicked.” He looks up, his voice earnest. “It won’t happen again, Chef.”

I’ve been remiss in my duties as a business owner. I should have tried to understand why Josef was unhappy. “What do you want, Josef?” I ask him now. “What’s going to make you jump out of bed in the morning, eager to get to work?”

He takes a deep breath. “I would like a fresh start,” he says. “I want to be the head chef in a small Lebanese restaurant in New York, but the offers aren’t pouring in.”

Comprehension sets in. “If we win
Can You Take The Heat?
, you’ll be able to put that on your resume.”

He nods. “Yes, Chef Jackson. As you can see, I need you to win this contest. I promise you, there will be no repeats of yesterday.”

He resumes chopping the celery, then moves on to the carrots and onions. I stare into space. One thing becomes clear. Kevin’s right; Josef didn’t sabotage me last night.

Something nags at me. Kimmie’s been around kitchens for a long time. She would know that over-salting the gravy wouldn’t do anything other than throw off our rhythm for a few minutes. Gravy doesn’t take long to make.

But my mother doesn’t know anything about food.

I recoil from that thought. It can’t be my parents. It just can’t.