The Prof Croft Series: Books 0-4 (Prof Croft Box Sets Book 1) by Brad Magnarella (best business books of all time txt) 📕

“No, no, that’s not necessary,” I interrupted. Though Arianna hadn’t explained how, the Order had funding resources going back to antiquity—resources Lich had been tapping. I used to think the grants that kept me afloat at Midtown College were reflections of the Order’s relative pleasure with my work. Turned out it was just Lich dispersing the funds erratically. Remind me never to scoff at primitive beliefs in weather gods. In any case, the Order would be paying us monthly now. Even so, I planned to keep my newly-tenured position at the college, though the change meant I was going to have to start earning grants by my own sweat now.

“This is less about me working as a consultant,” I continued, “which I’m still happy to do, and more about making sure we’re not working at cross purposes.”

“Cross purposes? You mean like the NYPD arresting you for suspected murder?”

I gave a dry laugh, reflecting back on Vega’s and my first encounter more than two years ago. And now here we were, swilling margaritas like old chums. Talk about cosmic humor. “Well, yeah, that,” I said, “but also getting info without going through a lot of red tape.”

“Croft, the NYPD is one of the city’s largest bureaucracies. There’s always going to be red tape.” She took another sip and licked her upper lip. “But you’ve got my number. If you need something, let me know. I’ll do whatever I can to get it for you.”

“Just like that, huh?”

“Only because it’s you.”

Wow, we really had come a long way. “Thanks,” I said. “I mean that.”

She nodded, and in one of the few times since I’d known her, I didn’t see her as a ball-breaking detective. She was simply Vega. She seemed to shift a little nearer as she studied my eyes. “What you told me about your dad on the phone. I know that’s gotta be hard.”

“It’s a process,” I said, trying not to look away. “I’ll be all right.”

A silence followed where the chatter and gleeful cries around us seemed to pull back. Our gazes drifted after Tony as he went around again.

“When we moved from Ferguson Towers to the South Bronx,” Vega said, “my dad got a job as a youth counselor. He was this big, imposing guy, but he was good with kids. Knew how to talk to them. He’d been doing that for a few years when a gang war threatened to break out in a park down the block from us. My dad had worked with some of the kids on both sides, so he went down to talk some sense into them, keep them from killing each other, you know? Fighting broke out anyway, and he was shot in the chest. They say he died before he hit the ground.”

“I am so sorry,” I said.

“I was seventeen at the time. Had sort of been at a loss as far as what I was going to do. My dad had wanted me to go to college. But at the service for him, the entire 43rd Precinct showed up, hats off, like he was one of theirs. That got me. I decided then and there to become a cop.” When she looked up at me, her eyes were dry but strangely exposed. “I guess what I’m trying to say, Croft, is that the more I get to know you, the more of myself I see.” She snorted and shook her head. “Probably doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

“It does, actually.”

“The point is, I’m not going to make it harder for you to do what’s in your blood, what you’re clearly committed to. And if I can make it easier, I will. Consider me a part of your team.”

She raised her glass as though for another toast. Instead, I leaned down and kissed her. Her mouth tensed, and I was sure she was going to draw away. But then her lips softened against mine, and I tasted the salty sweetness over them. When we separated, I felt like I was awakening from a long, pleasant dream, even though the kiss had lasted two seconds, tops.

She squinted at me. “Okay, what was that?”

My head still felt gauzy, and I had to blink her into focus. “Me saying ‘thank you’?”

“I’m flattered, Croft. I am. But I’ve got a lot going on in my life right now. There’s my work, there’s Tony. I don’t know if this is such a good…” At that moment, her son ditched his trike and ran up to the table. Red cheeked and panting, he clambered onto my lap.

“…idea,” Vega finished.

“Did you bring your cane?” Tony asked.

“It’s right here.” I reached under the bench and handed it to him, my father’s blade locked safely inside.

“Coool,” he said, looking it up and down. “When are you coming to visit the apartment again?”

“Well, that’s really up to your mom.”

“Mom, when can Mr. Croft come over?” he asked.

When I looked at Vega, her head was tilted to one side, lids half cocked as though to say, Sure, use my kid against me. But her lips were turning up at the corners. “Is Mr. Croft free next Sunday for lunch?” she asked.

Tony trained his large, expectant eyes on mine.

“Barring any emergencies,” I said. “He is. Absolutely.”

“Yay!” Tony said.

“Yay,” Vega echoed in deadpan, but still smiling.

Our tacos arrived, and Tony scrambled under the table and took his place opposite us. He babbled as we ate, the sound a pleasant backdrop to my thoughts about the strangeness Arianna had mentioned, the team who would find me “one at a time,” and the future of the Order. But mostly I thought about Ricki Vega and the beginnings, maybe, of something special.

“Who’s ready for more tacos?” I asked.

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