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I sat.
I recited my lines.
And I waited.
I wasn’t sure if it was lucky or unlucky that the wait wasn’t long.
I guess it was always better to rip the bandage off rather than agonize about it.
The trunk flew open, and before I could even register any faces, hands were moving inside, grabbing me, pulling me up and out, before settling me on my feet.
My mask.
I had to put my cool and confident mask on.
“Ugh, finally,” I grumbled, rolling my shoulders casually as my gaze landed on the trio of men standing there. “Quite the welcome party,” I added, brow quirking up.
They reminded me of the Grassi Family, actually, but less attractive. Or maybe I just felt that way because of the whole kidnapping and attempted murder thing.
Attempted.
I refused to believe that Massimo and Aurelio hadn’t made it.
My heart couldn’t handle that.
I had to believe that Matteo and the others made it back in time to get them the care they needed. They were probably sitting in a hospital bed pissed that they couldn’t get up and help come find me.
Massimo never wanted to miss all the “fun.”
“The fuck did you just say?” one of the guys asked, looking at me with bushy, drawn-together brows.
“You’re not the boss,” I declared, taking a wild shot in the dark.
“Who the fuck does this broad think she is?” the same man asked, looking to one of his buddies at his side.
He was younger than the other guy. And, objectively, a little bit more attractive. If he didn’t have such an ugly look in his eye, that is.
“Dunno. But I’ll have fun reminding her who is in charge here,” he declared, an evil look in his eyes.
“Clearly, it is not you either,” I said, rolling my eyes for good measure.
“Listen, bitch—“
“Hey,” the third guy said. He was an almost comically tall and thin man, making him look like he was straight out of a horror movie. “We’re supposed to take her to Luigi.”
“Finally, someone with a little sense,” I said, offering him a chilly smile. “Take me to Luigi then,” I said, lifting my chin like I was freaking royalty.
The house was large, but not overly ostentatious. It was the kind of place you might hear a snobby article referring to as a “mini-mansion” with partial stone front, sprawling grounds that likely wasted far too much water, and a tall unclimbable metal fence.
I will admit that the lions flanking the front steps were a bit overkill, though. I even let myself scoff at them, wanting to keep up a sort of indifferent and holier-than-thou bitch of a persona.
Bitches got respect.
And that was what I needed in this situation.
So that was what I needed to project.
“Problem?” the attractive, but evil-eyed one snapped from behind me.
“The lions are tacky,” I informed him as I got to the top of the steps.
“Yeah? Be sure to tell the boss that when you see him,” he invited as the tall guy pushed open the door and waited for me to follow him inside.
And, well, the inside was so tacky that they needed a new word for it.
Gold and brass and black and glass.
It was all just way, way too much.
That was the problem when people decorated. They went with a theme instead of design. Like if someone wanted to do a nautical room and loaded the walls with anchors and sailboat pictures instead of just sticking to colors and fabrics that brought in the feeling of the beach without slapping you over the head with beach-themed items.
This Luigi guy just went with a standard rich banker in New York in the 90s theme.
And it was as hideous as it sounds.
“Yo, boss, the bitch has something to say about your lions,” the guy behind me called as a man walked in from the back of the house.
And, again, if I were being objective, he was a good-looking guy. Tall, fit, though he had a little pooch that I would have found endearing if he wasn’t a complete freaking monster. He had olive skin and black hair that he kept slicked back from his face. Like slicked-slicked, as in you could see the marks from where his fingers moved through the gel to push it back.
“What about my lions?” Luigi asked, looking at me with eyes I found completely unreadable. Which was not going to make lying to him any easier. But I had to do my best.
“They’re tacky,” I told him, lifting my chin a bit.
“Is that so? And who are you to say?”
“Design is part of my job. The gold, black, and glass thing is also over,” I told him. “Whoever your designer is, they should have told you that.”
“Maybe I just like it.”
“Then you have bad taste.”
“Who the fuck—“ the guy behind me snarled, moving forward toward me, and it took a lot of self-control not to flinch.
