Page 7

When she emerged, he paused, and his puffy lips spread into a hideous yellowish brown, toothy smile. Mira frowned. She tried to sidestep him, and he matched her movement blocking her in.

“You were rude earlierSignora,” he spat, his English almost perfect.

“So were you,” she countered.

He advanced on her.

“I don’t appreciate your tone. Show me respect!”

“Get out of my way.” Mira refused to take another step back.

Francesco sneered. Even for his pint-size he bulked in the chest and arms. He definitely had the ability to deliver on the malevolent threat she read in the depths of his black-layered irises. The grip she had on her clutch bag tightened, and she readied to use it as a weapon. The deep baritone of a man’s voice broke above them. He said three words in Italian that drained the color from Francesco’s face. Mira dared to break eye contact with Francesco to glance beyond him into the face of her hero. This time the stranger didn’t focus on her solely. He kept his eyes trained on the back of Francesco’s head. She could see him much clearer now. He towered over them both. The rich outlines of his broad shoulders and muscular form filled his dark suit nicely. His hands were shoved down in his pockets and his posture relaxed, but his stare remained fiery hot. Francesco began to apologize profusely to Mira. He tried to reach her hand to kiss it, but she stepped back and away. Francesco turned and nodded his head in respect to the stranger and almost scurried out of the tight hall they shared.

“Grazie.” Mira said.

The stranger tracked Francesco until he was gone and then returned his focus to her. His smile was quite charming. He extended his hand. “Giovanni Battaglia.”

Mira accepted his hand and he immediately drew hers to his lips. He spoke with less of an accent than the rest of the men she’d met that evening. His voice was smooth and commanding.

“I’m Mira.”

“Ciao Bella,” he continued to hold her hand. “Are you okay? Did he touch you?”

“Him? No. No, he was just a jerk. He did nothing.” She swallowed another bout of nervousness that made her want to giggle. His hand naturally fell away from hers, and her body registered the neglect. His appreciative stare travelled from her toes, up the front part of her dress, over her tummy and the swell of her breasts to her face. He did so unapologetically. The heat banked in those dreamy sapphires captured her breath.

“Thank you, uh, again,” she stammered and walked around him. The heady scent of his aftershave nearly convinced her to return. She dared to glance back and was glad she did. He stared. She felt alive, sexy, desired under his gaze. It had been a long time since Kei stared at her that way. Mira hurried through the tables back to her safety zone.

“What took you so long?” Fabiana asked irritated. “Your food is cold.”

“I…I got lost.”

Fabiana kept eating. “Lorenzo came back while you were gone. He apologized. I think I was a bitch to him. So I apologized too.”

Mira unfolded her napkin and laid it on her lap trying to appear normal. “You weren’t a bitch to him.”

Fabiana smiled, nodding in agreement. “Tonight’s a bust. He can’t take us on a tour of the coast on his boat. Business matters or something. So he wants to make the whole thing up to us. He’s invited us out to his vacation home when the show is over. It’s not far from Milan. He says that Francesco won’t be there.”

Mira glanced down at her pasta and felt famished. Her adrenaline spiked and her stomach churned with such a raw hunger. “Sure sounds like fun,” she said forking some of the fresh rolled rigatoni and savoring the rich spicy garlic tang to the sauce.

Fabiana blinked at her confused. “You feeling okay?”

“Oh yes! Girl, I feel great.”

****

“Per favore!!No! No! I’m an innocent man!” Francesco squealed as he was thrown into the kitchen. The cooks and wait staff immediately fled from the stoves, leaving all food unattended. Lorenzo cringed inwardly over the sniveling ball of apologies Francesco curled into. Did the man have no pride? Nico grabbed Francesco by the collar and forced him to his knees. The man slumped over with his palms tightly pressed together and head bowed.Was he praying?Lorenzo cut his eyes in disgust. What would be next? Pissing his pants? Could he not hold it together long enough for Lorenzo to think of a way out of the mess? Francesco would be useless. Stupid fucker.

“Un figlio di puttana!” Carlo chuckled, the toothpick in his mouth switched to the other side. He and the others got a thrill over the sight of the man whimpering before them. Lorenzo had to agree. Francesco was a bastard, the dumbest of them all. Yes, he was innocent, but the begging and crying only made him appear all the more guilty.

The raid on the club wasn’t their fault. They never dealt in human trafficking. Someone had set them up, and he half suspected who. The truth of the matter was he and Francesco had committed another crime against his Don and their family, and Lorenzo had to quickly think of a way to keep his true sins from being revealed. Lorenzo feared the truth would spill from Francesco’s quivering lips and blow his world to smithereens. If Francesco even hinted at their business dealings Lorenzo silently vowed to put a bullet in the coward himself.

The praying stopped. Francesco openly wept. His head hung low and his shoulders shook through his sobbing. The doors to the kitchen opened. Lorenzo didn’t bother to look up. Tension rippled through the men like a cold wave, and he knew Giovanni had entered. Lorenzo’s gaze lifted from Francesco to confirm. His cousin locked eyes with him and then swept the room of those gathered. Francesco’s head lifted, and his eyes stretched to the point of escaping their sockets at the sight of Giovanni. Even Lorenzo felt a twinge of dread over what was to come next. Violence was in their blood. They were all their fathers’ sons. Giovanni ignored Francesco, whose attempt to crawl over for mercy was halted by the hand of Nico. Instead he approached the stove and a large boiling pot of tomato based gravy for some pasta dish. No one spoke as Giovanni removed a spoon and sampled it. Lorenzo glanced to Carlo. His best friend was focused on Francesco, a bloodlust in his hateful stare.

“Bennisimo!” Giovanni exclaimed after one taste. He turned his gaze to Lorenzo. “I always say the food is much better here than the pussy you try to sell out of the back door.”

The men laughed in agreement.

“We didn’t have anything to do with those girls cousin.” Lorenzo grunted.