Page 64 of Brutal Vows

“A nice one,” I insist. “Not just a simple gold band. Make sure it has diamonds.”

Leaning back in his chair, he crosses one leg over the other and gazes at me in silent, tight-lipped fury.

Finally, his teeth gritted, he says, “Any particular carat size you’d like, Madam Queen?”

My smile is so sweet, it could cause cancer. “The bigger thebetter. She’ll need something to show off to her friends, and it certainly isn’t you.”

His look turns black. The thunderclouds over his head start to boil.

I’m about to move on to the next item on my list when he says suddenly, “You’ll come with me to pick it out.”

I stop stirring the carbonara sauce to grimace at him. “It’s too personal. You have to choose something you think she’d like.”

A muscle in his jaw flexes. He stares at me in brooding silence, then says gruffly, “I don’t know what she bloody likes, do I?”

“For God’s sake, it’s not rocket science. Just pick out a pretty ring!”

Seeing that Quinn’s about to become unhinged, Gianni snaps, “You’ll go with him. It’s decided.”

“First thing in the morning,” agrees Quinn darkly.

A judge handing a prisoner a death sentence couldn’t sound more threatening.

“Fine. What time should I expect you?”

He snaps, “I’m staying here tonight!”

Fed up with his bearish attitude, I say flatly, “What a treat.”

I lower the heat under the pot and remove my apron. Then I put together a plate of spaghetti and sauce for Lili, along with a slice of the garlic bread that came out of the oven just before they walked in.

I turn away and head toward the door. Gianni looks at me quizzically.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m taking your daughter her dinner and delivering the news about her new wedding date, which you hadn’t gotten around to badgering me into yet.”

He’s aghast. “What aboutourdinners?”

“None of your arms are broken. Help yourselves.”

I feel Quinn’s eyes burning holes into my back as I walk out.

When I get upstairs, I knock lightly on Lili’s closed bedroom door. “It’s me. I thought you might be hungry.”

There’s no response for so long, I think she might be asleep. But then the door cracks open, and she’s standing there in her pajamas, red-eyed and pale.

“Hey,zia,” she whispers.

“Oh, sweetie, I know. A little food might help.”

She backs up, letting me into the room, but she’s shaking her head. “I can’t eat. I feel sick.”

She crosses to her bed, crawls under the covers, and pulls them over her face.

I set the plate of food on the nightstand, perch on the edge of the bed, then gently pull the blankets down. Smoothing a hand over her forehead, I say, “You want to talk about it?”

She sniffles. “Which part? The shootings, the explosion, the dead bodies, or that angry Bigfoot Papa wants me to marry?”