Page 93 of Sweet Ruin

18

KANE

I have never in my life waited on a woman’s answer.

That’s not a boast. It’s just the truth of how my life has gone. Women say yes to me before I’ve even finished asking the question. Half the time, I don’t have to ask at all.

I know why. I’m not stupid. I’m rich and I’m tall and my word carries weight in this town. There’s a certain type of woman who can smell that across a room.

They come to me. They always have.

And then, if history is any indicator, we fuck and part ways. If they throw a fit, I have Niko escort them out of my home. As soon as they cross that threshold, they’re out of my mind, too. Never to be thought of again.

I’ve never once lain awake wondering what one of them was thinking.

I’ve never once cared what one of them decided.

I’ve lived that way on purpose. I like being in charge. Not in some kinky way, though that applies, too. I mean it simply in the sense that once I decide something, it is done, and I don’t have to waste my life waiting on others to decide if they agree.

So Thursday is a strange fucking day.

Because I spend the whole day waiting.

I do my best to stay busy. I’m up at five as usual to run the standing calls. My lieutenants ring or visit all morning to update me on cash flows and shipment manifests, on drug production labs and territory disputes. A fiery young captain in Brighton Beach begs permission to cut off a subordinate’s hand over a minor theft, and I have to talk him down from the unnecessary bloodshed.

In between bouts of work, I eat, pace, take notes, and lift weights in the downstairs wine cellar that I had converted to a basement gym.

By ten in the morning, I’ve done everything a man does in a day—and there is still an entire goddamn day left.

And I haven’t heard a peep from her.

I’m still brimming with energy, so I go for a savagely fast run around Central Park, pushing myself harder and harder and harder still. Only when it feels like there are shards of glass in my lungs and battery acid in my legs do I call it quits.

Shower.

Shave.

Dress.

Still nothing.

This is not a good look on me. I’m extremely fucking aware.

She’s got a bakery and it’s New Year’s Eve. She’ll be buried in work for a while still.

But knowing that truth in my head is a very different thing than accepting it in my nervous system. As reasonable as it is—and, for fuck’s sake, I’m the one who agreed to let her have a day to think over my offer—I’m still irritable and impatient.

What I want is for it to be last night again, with the counter between us, because in that moment, I had her. I fucking had her.

I could feel it. She wanted to say yes so badly that her mouth was already open. Then she closed it and asked for a day to mull things over.

I’ve been paying the price for that generosity ever since.

By the time noon arrives, my unspent energy is reaching a dangerous breaking point. Niko comes barreling in from wherever he’s been all morning, veering straight to the kitchen to make himself a plate of food from my meal prep.

“There are forks in the drawer,” I inform him. “You don’t have to eat over the sink with your bare hands like a feral rat.”

He grins with a mouth full of roast pork and mashed potatoes. “Where’s the fun in that?”