‘Jett,’ Tom drawled, ‘I have the strangest sensation of déjà vu. I could have sworn I heard the exact same thing two minutes ago.’
‘Don’t start with me. I’m Switzerland.’
‘How long will it take you to drill the safe?’ Nella dug her nails into her knees; she couldn’t stop the bouncing.
‘He’s already told you,’ Tom said. ‘Every safe is different.’
‘Remind me why you had to come?’ Nella snarled back, watching Jett in the rearview mirror. His jaw was clamped and he kept looking out the window like he was seeing something in his periphery.
‘I’m the client,’ Tom said. ‘Right now you’re working for me. I need to make sure you have my family’s best interests at heart.’
If she slipped her shoe off, she could stab the heel into the part of his neck that hits the main artery and he’d bleed out in minutes. But then Jett would murder her for getting blood on Bessy’s seats.
‘What’s up with you?’ Tom barked at Jett. Huh. So Tom had noticed something was off with him too.
‘Running out of time,’ Jett said.
‘This is ridiculous.’ Tom craned his neck, as though hoping someone would spot him and demand to know why Tomaso Barbarani was being held up, like a common pleb in something as middle-class as a traffic jam. He turned to Jett. ‘Switch with me.’
Nella snorted, while Jett just stared, slack-jawed, like Tom had asked him to run naked through the idling traffic.
‘Oh,’ Jett said eventually, ‘you’re serious.’
‘I’m serious about taking back this family’s honour,’ Tom snarled. ‘Get out. I’ll drive. You and Antonella can find a way into Lieu’s office. I don’t care if she has to suck the cock of that prissy twat Oliver to get it ...’
‘Enough, Tom.’ Jett’s voice was dark and cold. The inside of a black hole. Nella’s skin prickled and heat rushed to the nerve endings in her cheeks. Some part of her had hoped he’d forgotten, or at least granted her the decency of pretending to.
‘Switch inside,’ Tom said. ‘Don’t want to draw attention.’
Tom’s self-awareness did not extend to the understanding that they’d been drawing attention to themselves ever since they turned onto South Terrace in a red Porsche with the licence plateSangue.
Jett didn’t like to lose control of Bessy (understatement of the millennia). But Nella figured he was itching, like she was, to get this night over with. Also, Tom’s eyes were like hot little lasers on both of them and he wasn’t going to let up.
Jett locked the handbrake and hunched his enormous frame as small as he could to crawl over into the back seat. Nella hopped out before he fell into her lap. Tom scootched into the driver’s seat far more easily and waved at them as they stood in the middle of the road. To an onlooker, the gesture would have been friendly, but to Nella and Jett it meant,‘What are you waiting for, you moronic imbeciles? GO!’
They weaved their way through the annoyed, stagnant cars, Nella not missing the fact that Jett was walking at half-stride so she and her heels could keep up.
‘These shoes are not meant for this,’ she said as they were rescued by the footpath. ‘They are meant to be enviously admired for about an hour and then seductively slid off and tossed aside.’
Jett grunted.
‘You disagree?’
‘Sorry. Nope, that’s definitely the vibe they give off.’
She watched him as their reflections darted in and out of the black glass of closed cafes and dimly lit bars. In all honesty, she’d been sneaking covert glances at him all through the car ride. Only because seeing him in a tux, collar crisp around his smooth shaven neck, white linen pulled taut around his pecs, brought back memories of the last time he’d been dressed like that, the night of the gala. His last tux had been blood soaked. Black stains from her mascara and foundation crusted the snow-white shirt. He’d thrown it out. Just as she’d destroyed the black Versace dress she’d worn that night. The dress didn’t have blood on it, but it had the memories, and it smelled like Jett and fire and death.
The dress she was wearing tonight was probably too ‘cocktail’ for this crowd. It was a long-sleeved dark green bodycon number that cinched her throat. Her boobs were the stars of the show due to the way it clung to her curves, but it was the length that was the issue. Typically, a long, sleek ball gown was the norm for these types of events. But if their plan didn’t work, her legs needed to be free to sprint.
‘What’s up with you tonight?’ She tugged the dress down as she glared at their reflections in a boutique bookshop window. She was dressed as who she was – a viper ready to strike – and he looked like a reluctant James Bond. ‘If you’re having second thoughts, you need to tell me now.’
‘I’m not thinking about the safe.’
‘Okay.’ She wrinkled her nose against the smells wafting towards her from the rooftop of a red brick unit covered in vines. Burnt onions, frying sausages and warm tomato sauce wafted around them. She hoped she wasn’t going to smell like a Bunnings on a Saturday morning by the time they arrived at Lieu & Lockridge.
A few metres along the street, Jett continued. ‘I used to live here.’
The comment shocked her so much her heel caught in a pavement crack. She plunged forward and he grabbed her waist, his hand firm against her ribcage. He let her go as soon as she righted herself.
