Dante’s gorgeous face broke open in that charming smile I could never resist. “Tiernan is a business associate.” Meaning someone with shady dealing in the New York underworld. “But, yes, he is also a friend.”

“Which is how I know your wife comes highly recommended,” Tiernan added with a raise brow.

“I’m not accepting new clients,” I said somewhat waspishly.

I couldn’t help the flare of annoyance that burned the base of my spine. I did not like to be made a fool of and Tiernan had done just that by not mentioning his connection to Dante.

The scarred man seemed to read my thoughts and stepped forward, a sober expression dousing the last of his humor. “I was not playing you, Elena. I simply wanted to establish a connection with you based on who I was as a man and who you were woman. As individuals. I was under the impression you preferred to be viewed as independent from your family, as do I.”

He was a curious man and that was my weakness.

My eyes slid over his shoulder to Dante, whose eyes gleamed in the darkness. He enjoyed watching me think. Once, he’d told me it was the sexiest form of foreplay.

“You do not associate with your family, Mr. Morelli?” I asked finally.

A sad, twisted excuse for a smile pulsed between his cheeks then flatlined. “Oh, I do. But a man is not his parents, is he?”

I could tell from his pointed look that he knew about Seamus Moore. He couldn’t know I’d been the one to kill my own father, but it was enough that he understood the chaos the man had wrecked on my life.

I resolved to do some digging into the Morellis.

“Come to the ball, Elena,” he said, completely ignoring my husband, the full force of his focus on me. “I believe you’ll change your mind about taking me on if you agree to attend.

That didn’t happen often in our circles, most men wanted to defer to my husband because he was a man, a large one and a powerful one at that.

I appreciated Tiernan’s effort.

“I hope you don’t plan to ply me with eggnog in hopes it’ll make me more amenable,” I said drily. “I can’t stand the stuff.”

“Vin Brulé,” Dante offered in Italian then, “Mulled wine is the better choice.”

“Noted,” Tiernan nodded and stepped forward to extend his hand again. “I’ll see you soon, Mrs. Lombardi. A presto, I think they say in your mother tongue.”

I eyed his hand, the calloused fingers and the pale scars bisecting his palm and up his wrists from untold fights.