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“Nah, I’m more of a plaid kind of gal myself.” Her arms cross over her chest. “Seriously, what’s the deal?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Oh, that only makes me even more curious.” Her eyebrows waggle. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Several.”
“Gross. Absolutely foul. Never speak to me again.”
“You brought it up.”
She throws the slippers at me. I catch them and toss them aside. “Maddie wants to know if you’re going to be around for dinner.”
“Not tonight.”
“Got a hot date with slippers girl?”
“Yes, actually.”
Stefania looks surprised. “Huh. I was just messing with you, but you’re serious.”
“I am serious.”
“Is this something we should be aware of?”
“No, it isn’t.”
She hesitates and clears her throat. “There’s a little rumor?—”
“I don’t want to hear about it.”
“Dante was talking about some girl you went home with? And you were going back to a bar to hide from her or something?”
I grimace. The story got mangled on the grapevine. “Don’t worry about Dante. Everything’s fine.”
“You know me, I’m happy if you’re happy. But our eldest brother—” She leaves it at that.
“Thank you. I’m aware of what Don Renzo might think, thank you.”
“Great, as long as you’re prepared for his cranky ass to give you a whole lot of shit.” Stefania beams at me. “Anyway, I’ll let Maddie know you’re busy.”
She leaves with a wave and some of my good mood is soured. I don’t need her to remind me about Renzo. He’s the damn reason I feel like I have to hide my unborn child from my own little sister.
Molly’s Irish. Not only Irish, but related to the Lynch Clan, and they happen to be our mortal enemies at the moment. Them and the Aslanov Bratva. If Renzo knew that I was providing backpacks, fuzzy slippers, prenatal vitamins, and groceries to an Irish girl, he’d lose his fucking shit.
I couldn’t blame him either.
I’m not sure how this is supposed to look. I’m the underboss of the Famiglia—I’m actively involved in planning and executing the war effort. Even if Renzo’s micromanaging all that shit, I’m still very much involved. What would the soldiers and the Capos think if I was busy sinking my dick between Irish thighs? They’d flip the fuck out.
Which is why Molly’s a secret. For now, at least.
I check the clock, make a few more calls, then gather up my stuff. I shove it into a bag and hurry out, making sure nobody stops to ask me any questions. I’ll have to deal with Dante and his rumors some other time. For now, I’m getting dinner.
* * *
Molly’s diner isn’t busy. I sit at a table in her section, and when she comes over, I tilt the bag toward her. She peers inside, looking like a rabid badger is about to leap out and claw her eyes to shreds.
“Very nice,” she says.
