Page 76 of The Boss

My shoulders sag.

Because no, I probably won’t.

I release her hips and step back to yell, “Anyone give my wife a pill, a line, a smoke, or try to touch her or putanythingin her mouth that’s not alcohol, you’re dead.”

A chorus ofYes, Bossrings out around us. As it does, my wife clenches her jaw. Her arms twitch at her sides, like she wants to cross them and cover herself. But she’s Luna Mancini. She is not insecure. Not with others, anyway.

“I hate you,” she whispers.

“Yes, so much so you want my men to tighten up so they don’t get me killed.”

“That’s for Zeno, not you!” she growls as she stomps away.

I watch her go and don’t look around to see if any men are enjoying the show as well. I would love an excuse to shoot someone right now, but this is a party.

“Huh,” Zeno says as I finally rejoin him. I raise a brow so he goes on, “I’ve never seen her get mad in public before. She’s always…Luna,you know?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Did you break my cousin?” He asks, only partly joking.

“No,”She is breaking me.I lift my chin so Mac will lead us out. “Let’s go.”

CHAPTER 35

Luna

“Oh,” Quinn says as he creeps into our room. “You’re still up.”

It’s late. Really late. But I had fun. Shelia, May, and Bernice, who we call Bernie, they’re pretty fun when they’re not trying to talk to me about chores. A group of “the club girls” from the city showed up. They were…less fun. Or, maybe, more intimidating.

They don’t all have classic Irish red hair and green eyes, a dumb thought I had. I should know better since not every Italian woman has my exact coloring. Apparently, Quinn’s clubs employ Black girls, White girls, an Asian girl is here too. Different heights, different vibes. A couple of them are doe-eyed girl-next-door types. A couple seem more wild and free, like hippies. A few are bombshells exuding sex from every pore. Each one is curvier than me, more…womanly. Definitely more experienced, but who isn’t?

I couldn’t help wondering if Quinn had been with any of them. Or all of them.

“Party’s still going,” I say, giving the balcony doors a pointed glance.

I’m tipsy.

And horny.

And stock still, one dim lamp on in the corner, listening to the party below like a creeper.

Quinn walks over to me, towering above where I sit on the couch. He’s so big in here. I never see him in this room, only evidence of him. A jacket on the chair, a comb on the bathroom counter. I sleep like the dead and he’s always in late and out early. Avoiding me, I’m sure.

“You’ve been listening?” He says, his voice gritty.

“Gotta get off somehow,” I say, bitter. I need to shut my mouth. But just a few drinks and I have no filter, no off switch. It’s why I rarely drink.

“Luna,” Quinn warns.

“Is it because I’m a virgin?” I ask, but I don’t let him respond because my mouth is going off the rails again. “Is it because I’m a stick? I’ve always been like this, more…athletic. Z used to always call me a string bean. I wondered all these years if men even wanted my body at all or if they just wanted a virgin or if maybe they just wanted the mafia princess. I guess you—”

“Stand up,” Quinn says as he grabs my hand and tugs me out of my seat. “Come,” he says, already leading me to the balcony. He opens the door and I can immediately hear it. There’s still some music playing somewhere, and some men in the distance talking. But there’s moaning. Thumping too.

“What are you…” Quinn pulls me to the edge of the balcony. I stop but he puts his hands on my hips and pushes me straight to the railing. Then he cages in behind me.

“Watch,” he says in my ear.