“Let me take a look,” I tell Quinn, reaching for his lapel.
He brushes me off impatiently. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine, idiot. You have a hole in you. You’re bleeding. I can help.”
“I don’t need a nurse. Especially one who’s likely to stab me in the neck when I’m not looking.”
Realizing that arguing with him will get me nowhere, I give up. “Okay, Macho Man. Good luck with that nasty infection.”
He glowers at me. “I don’t have a nasty infection.”
“Not yet. But it’ll set in soon from the debris that entered the wound along with the bullet. You know, threads from your shirt and suit, bone fragments, burnt powder, all that fun stuff. The wound needs to be irrigated, disinfected, and stitched up or things will get ugly fast. You could end up dead.”
I try not to look too pleased by the thought, but I’m sure I fail.
He pauses to consider me for a beat. “Have much experience with bullet wounds, do you, wee viper?”
Irritated by that heinous nickname, I grind my molars. “I’ve lived all of my thirty-three years in the Mafia. What do you think?”
He quirks a brow. It turns to a smirk. Then he drawls, “So you’re thirty-three. Hmm.” He looks me up and down. “You don’t look a day over forty.”
“At least thirty-three is my age and not my IQ.”
“And at least I don’t have the personality of a cold toilet seat.”
“God, I wish you’d fall onto a hive of murder hornets. In the meantime, why don’t you go outside and see if you can miscount any more intruders? I’m going to check on my mother.”
As I walk away, headed to the kitchen, he calls out, “How do I get to the safe room?”
“Make two right turns at the end of that hall. You’ll hit a set of double wood doors. The stairway to the basement is behind them.”
I walk into the kitchen and flick on the overhead lights. Mamma sits at the table with an empty glass and a bottle of wine on the table in front of her. She’s got a small silver pistol in her left hand.
“Ah, stellina! Just in time—I’m out of wine.” She sets the gun down and pushes the empty wineglass toward me. “And no Cabernet, please. That stuff Homer likes is too dense.”
I mutter, “Like the man himself.”
Setting the rifle on the island, I pick up the house phone and dial down to the safe room. Gianni picks up on the first ring.
“It’s me. You’ve got Lili?”
“Yes, she’s safe.”
“I haven’t checked the cameras yet. What can you see?”
“The grounds are clear.”
“Good. So’s the house.”
“Leo’s on his way with more men.”
“How long until they get here?”
“Any minute.” A short pause follows. “Mr. Quinn saved your life.”
I can’t tell by his tone if he’s going to thank him or hate him for that. “I would’ve been fine without his help.”
He chuckles. “From what I could see, it didn’t look like it, sorellina.”
Little sister, little star, little viper…why does everyone insist on calling me little?
I’m fucking BIG!
And I certainly don’t need a bossy, overbearing, overconfident man-child with a dumb nickname and an even dumber matching tattoo to save my life. I can do it all by myself, thank you!
I blow out a breath, push my anger aside, and focus. “So who do you think they were?”
Gianni’s voice hardens. “I don’t know yet. But I’ll find out. What did they say to you?”
Both times I was confronted by the intruders, they spoke to me, which Gianni obviously saw as he watched on the security camera bank in the safe room. But there’s no audio feed, so he wouldn’t have been able to hear.
“They asked me where Lili was. Said they’d shoot me if I didn’t take them to her.”
Gianni curses under his breath. “I should’ve known.”
“Known what?”
“This joining of our families, the Mafia and the Mob…it’s made Lili a high-profile target.”
Realizing what he means, my stomach turns over. “For kidnapping.”
“Yes. Now I’m not the only one who’d pay a fortune to get her back. Mr. Quinn has a vested interest in her safety, too. Someone wanted to double his money.”
He pauses. His voice drops. “Or prevent the match completely.”
I know what he means without him having to spell it out.
There are plenty of people who’d be glad if the Mafia and the Mob remained enemies forever. By joining our houses, we’ve made powerful allies, but also put ourselves in the sights of those who’d be happier if we stayed at odds.
Lili’s not only in danger of kidnapping. She’s in danger of something far worse.
Murder, for instance.
My blood runs ice cold.
Gripping the phone so hard it shakes, I say, “Russians?”
“Doubtful. Declan O’Donnell has a tie to them. By blood.”
“The king of the Mob is related to the Russians? How?”
“His wife’s sister is pregnant by the boss of the Moscow Bratva.”
That’s shocking news. The Mob and the Bratva have been at each other’s throats for as long as I can remember. “How did that matchup ever happen?”
“By force. She was taken.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Exactly.”
Wonderful. So not only is Lili in danger of being kidnapped and held for ransom or killed to prevent the alliance altogether, she’s also in danger of being stolen and purposely impregnated so an alliance with some other third party would be forced.
She’s now on every mobster’s radar in the States.
And probably worldwide.
Fuming, I say, “Christ, Gianni! I told you not to make the match with this Irishman!”
“Don’t be so shortsighted. We’ll gain far more in the long run than the danger we face now. It’s just a turbulent period we have to navigate until the venture pays off.”
“You know this is your daughter we’re talking about, right? Your own flesh and blood? She’s not an investment in the damn stock market!”
Bored by my concern for his offspring, Gianni sighs. “We’ll come up when Leo arrives. Don’t let Mamma drink too much wine. She gets mouthy when she’s tipsy.”
He hangs up, leaving me growling.
“I’m dying of thirst over here, tesoro.” Mamma taps her empty glass with a fingernail.
I slam down the receiver on the phone and glare at her. “You raised an absolute asshole, you know that?”
She pauses to purse her lips. “Are we talking about your brother?”
“Do you want your wine or not?”
“Sí.”
“Then we’re talking about my brother!”
She tsks. “I’m only teasing you. Mamma mia, you’re so tense lately!”
Crossing to the wine fridge, I say, “Gee, I don’t know why, could be that home invasion we just had.”
Under her breath, she says, “Or something a little more hung.”
I whirl around and stare at her. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”
She blinks innocently. “What?”
“Did you just say the word…hung?”
She pretends to think. “Did I?”
“You know what? I don’t want to know. I’m getting you your wine. Now please never speak again.”
She shrugs and holds out her glass.
At that exact moment, Quinn saunters into the kitchen.
Mamma cackles. “Aha! The plot thickens!”
He looks at me. A furrow forms between his brows. “What did I miss?”
I snap, “The entire period after childhood when you were supposed to grow into an adult.”
He looks at Mamma.
She says, “You can try to respond to that, but it will be molto dangerous.”
After a moment of thought, he simply sits down across from her and shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the back of the chair beside him.
Mamma chuckles. “Good call.”
I grab a bottle of wine, get the wine opener from the drawer, and hack away at the foil on the top of the bottle until it’s shredded. Then I stab at the cork with the corkscrew until Mamma says to me softly in Italian, “It isn’t the home invasion that’s got you so worked up.”
I stop what I’m doing and glance up at her.
She nods, holding my gaze. “Now take a breath and calm yourself. You’re my daughter. You’re made of iron, like me. Forged in fire. Unbreakably hard. You can withstand anything.”
She inclines her head in Quinn’s direction. “Including your attraction to him.”
It’s a humbling thing, having someone who knows you so well. Someone who sees past all the walls you’ve erected, past all the smoke and mirrors you’ve thrown up to protect yourself and lead everyone else astray from the truth.
I set the corkscrew down slowly on the countertop, close my eyes, and exhale.
Into the ensuing silence, Quinn says, “Maybe I can get that for you.”
When I open my eyes, he’s pointing at the bottle, a questioning look in his eyes.
“You’re shot, you fool.”
“I’m used to operating under less-than-ideal circumstances.”
That makes me laugh. “I’m sure you are. By the way, why are you in here? I thought you were going to the basement.”
“I did. Everything’s fine down there. Gianni wants to stay there with Lili until his men arrive, and I agreed with that. So now I’m back up here.” His voice drops. “With you.”
Ignoring Mamma’s piercing stare, I say, “If you’re staying, you’re getting stitched up.”
He wrinkles his nose.
“No arguments. I don’t want your blood all over my clean floor. I’ll pour us all some wine, then have a look at your wound. Whether you like it or not!” I add loudly when he starts to protest.
He holds up his hands in surrender. “How about if we make a deal? You can stitch me up, but after that, I’d like you to make me supper.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Oh, the master of the universe is issuing a request? And here I thought you only knew how to bark orders.”
“I’ve noticed that you don’t respond well to orders.”
When I don’t say anything, he adds softly, “Please?”
We gaze at each other for a moment as Mamma looks back and forth between us. Then she raps her wineglass against the table, muttering, “Prisoners get better service than this.”
Quinn sends her a fond smile. “I’m glad you said it and not me.”
“If the two of you are going to gang up on me, nobody’s getting wine!”
Irritated by their easy camaraderie, I pour Mamma her wine, then get two more glasses from the cupboard. I serve Quinn his, then stand beside the table and guzzle an entire glass of Chianti in one go.
Watching me, Quinn is silent.
When he stands and loosens his tie, I’m still under control. It isn’t until he unbuttons his black dress shirt and pulls it off that I almost topple over backward in a dead faint.
The muscles. Good God, the muscles.
His chest is broad and rock-hard. His nipples are pierced with small silver studs. His abs look like they were carved from marble. His shoulders are wide and his biceps bulging. Everything is hard, defined, and tight. There isn’t an ounce of fat on him.
And the tattoos.
Mercy, the tattoos.
How can a collection of colorful ink be so devastatingly sexy?
His right arm has a full sleeve, shoulder to wrist. An elaborate scrolled font in a language I don’t know snakes in an arc across the top of his chest, from shoulder to shoulder, just under his collarbone. There’s some kind of tribal symbol decorating his left biceps, and another on his left shoulder.
And that spiderweb on the side of his neck, of course.
Somehow with him stripped naked to the waist, even that damn spiderweb tattoo has taken on a seductive allure. I want to trace every line with my tongue.
Where he isn’t tattooed, his skin is smooth and golden, like he works shirtless outdoors in the sun.
This man could be a pinup model.
At least my vagina thinks so. A five-alarm blaze has erupted in my underpants. I’m going to have to go in search of a fire extinguisher to put these roaring flames out.
Quinn’s brows draw together. Examining my expression, he says, “What’s wrong?”
Mamma and I share a stunned look before I pull myself together. “That bullet wound is serious.”
He glances down at his arm. There’s a ragged gash on the top outer part of his shoulder. It’s surrounded by bruised tissue darkening to purple, and it’s leaking blood.
He says, “It’s barely a scratch. He only clipped me.”
“A few inches lower and that bullet would’ve torn straight through your heart.”
“But it didn’t. Luck of the Irish, I suppose.”
I’m shocked by how casual he sounds. He could be discussing a hangnail for how nonchalant he seems.
“Have you been shot much?” asks Mamma.
“Depends on how you define much.”
“More than once.”
“Then, aye. This makes…” He pauses, thinking. “Five? Six?”
I’m astonished. “You’re not sure?”
He cocks a brow at me, smirking. “You seem impressed.”
“Only you would think that. It’s unfortunate your maker decided to finish you without giving you a brain. Sit.”
He winks at Mamma. “Look who’s barking orders now.”
She smiles knowingly. Then she rises and grasps her cane in one hand and her wineglass in the other. “I won’t stay for the gory part. I don’t have as strong a stomach at the sight of blood as Reyna does.”
A stomach I earned through years of cleaning my own blood from clothing, carpet, and my skin.
As Mamma hobbles out, Quinn watches me, his hazel eyes sharp as an eagle’s.
“You okay?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. Today has been…”
“All sorts of fun,” he says, chuckling.
“Be quiet now.”
I turn away and head to the sink, where I pull a bottle of hydrogen peroxide from the cabinet beneath. The first aid kit is in a cabinet over the dishwasher, with clean gauze pads, antibiotic ointment, bandages, gloves, and tools inside.
I set the kit on the table, then stand over Quinn and pull on the latex gloves. As I gingerly clean and disinfect the wound, he drinks his wine and smolders as only he can, glancing up at me from time to time with hooded eyes.
I can tell he’s deep in thought, but I’ll be damned if I’ll ask him about it.
After a while, he says abruptly, “I still don’t want to see you after the wedding.”
“You made that clear earlier. I don’t want to see you, either. Your mood changes require medical intervention. Now shut up, or I’ll make your stitches look like they belong on Frankenstein’s monster.”
“You can just glue it.”
“With what? Elmer’s?”
“You don’t have any skin glue?”
“Do I look like a fucking pharmacy?”
His gaze rakes over me, head to toe. He growls, “No, viper. You look more like a fucking land mine.”
“If that was an insult, I didn’t get it. Now please. Shut. Up.”
A low sound of aggravation rumbles through his chest.
Working as quickly as I can, I thread a needle with unwaxed dental floss and make small, even stitches across the wound to close it. Instead of tying a knot at the end, I snip the floss with an inch left over, then tape it to his skin on both ends.
When I feel him looking at me, I know he’s about to demand an explanation, so I beat him to the punch. “It will heal better if the sutures aren’t pulled too tightly. Knots make them pull.”
“How do you know that?”
I mutter, “Years of personal experience on my own body.”
I’m about to draw away, but he grasps my wrist and holds it, his grip firm but not tight.
Startled, I look into his eyes.
They’re blazing with emotion.
He says gruffly, “I’d like to kill him.”
“Who?”
“Your husband. If he were still alive, I’d kill him for you. And I wouldn’t make it quick.”
That takes my breath away.
I stare at him with my lips parted and my heart hammering like mad, feeling as if I’m balancing on the edge of a high cliff, gazing down into an endless abyss below me, dangerously close to tumbling over.
Before I can say another word, Quinn releases my wrist, rises, yanks his shirt and suit jacket from the back of the chair he folded them over, and walks out of the kitchen.
