Page 47 of Dance of Thorns

11

BANE

“Well,this explains why you bit my fucking head off a few weeks ago.”

Across the table from me, Laz cocks a brow.

“You could’ve just said she was your girl,” he grins. “Here I’ve been, crying to my therapist about my best friend being short with me for no reason.”

We’re sitting in the VIP lounge of Smolder, a new cigar bar in Tribeca that Nero’s recently invested in. I’ve decided not to point out that Nero doesn’t smoke cigars himself. I gave up trying to understand the way my psychotic friend’s mind works years ago…and I say this as someone with a fairly fucked-up brain himself.

Tonight, Nico is with Naomi out on Long Island, visiting his and Carmine’s dad, Vito, so the crew is me, Carmine, Nero, Roman, and Laz.

“A, she’s notmy girl,” I growl. “And B, I didn’t bite your head off.”

Laz pouts.

Roman chuckles. “I mean, I was there, and yousort ofdid.”

“C,” Carmine smirks from next to me, eying Laz, “there is azeropercent chance you’ve ever seen a therapist. And D, your best friend is your dick.”

Laz grins over the rim of his glass. “Fuck you.”

“I’m right, though,” Carmine smirks.

Our friend sighs heavily and rolls his eyes. “Fine, yes to both. I mean, none of you has had the pleasure of being introduced to my dick, so I understand that you don’t get the depth of our relationship.”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “That's why I’malsopositive you’ve never once seen a shrink.”

I’d know. I’ve seen easily a dozen of them since I was nine.

“Nope,” Laz beams, tapping his head. “I’m not crazy like some of you fuckers.”

“I'm not crazy, I’m acreative thinker,” Nero scowls. “Don’t try and force me into your neurotypical box, dickhead.”

Roman rolls his eyes and turns to shoot me a “which of us is going to tell him” look. I shrug and turn to our Italian friend, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“Nero, I love you like a brother, but you’re fucking nuts.”

Nero grins. “I know. I’m just fucking with you. So…Dove. What’s the story?”

I shrug, bringing my vodka to my lips. “Just business.”

He frowns. “Business?”

“Yup,” I lie.

Nero taps the table in front of him, regarding me doubtfully. “Okay, but out of all the fucking Italians to get into bed with, you pick the Marchetti family?”

“I didn’t realize your sister was an option,” I reply dryly.

He glares at me. “You eventhinkabout Gabriella like that, and I’ll sodomize you with a hot poker.” He scowls. “On an unrelated note, the fuck aren’t any of you smoking?” He jabs a finger at the box of Cubans in the middle of the table.

Carmine smirks. “I was just waiting for you to go first. I mean, it’s your place.”

“But I don’t smoke cigars,” Nero shrugs.

I raise my brow. “So you invested in a cigar bar because…”