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My brothers stifle their chuckles, disguising them as coughs. They know I’m not above turning all Hulk and ripping my way out of my clothing in order to strangle them with my bare hands.
Brass looks at Reaper. “If he’s stuck, you know our big asses aren’t going fit.” Reaper snorts in agreement.
I barely keep my voice below a growl. “Will someone please get me out of this thing?”
Reaper and Brass step forward, nudging the tailor and sales associate aside. They each grab a sleeve and try to yank the jacket down my arms. The seams begin to pop and everyone freezes.
Brass looks back at the sales associate. “Exactly how expensive is this suit?”
The clerk looks a little worried. “It’s the latest Tom Ford addition for fall fashion. It’s nearly four-thousand.”
“Fuck!” I roar. I may have money, but it doesn’t mean I like to rip it up for shit, kicks, and giggles. I shake my head. “Is there any way to peel me out of this thing without busting it apart?”
The salesman blinks. “I don’t know. This has never happened before.”
“Hey asshat, next time you get an itch to put a big dude in a little suit, fucking don’t. You go straight to the big and tall section and tailor the shit around him,” Reaper chides.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here? I’ve never seen a gorilla in a suit before,” an Italian accent purrs.
All heads whip to Lorenzo Bianchi standing off to the side. His goons, Pretty Paolo and Lucky Luca, flank him. Bianchi stands there with an air of superiority in his fine Italian-made suit. His face looks amused, taking in my current predicament.
I can’t help but feel like a fool standing with my arms handcuffed behind my back in the suit jacket. I don’t like it—not one fucking bit.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I snap.
Bianchi appears unaffected by my anger. He waltzes into our space with his hands in his pockets. “I had an urge for a new suit and was in the area.” He circles me like a shark, eyes trailing over my body. “Ah, Tom Ford. I’ve never been much a fan of his work—too edgy, I suppose.”
“Good thing Josephine likes edgy, wouldn’t you say?” I taunt.
Bianchi ignores my slighting and continues to circle, observing me. “I prefer Armani and Bottega Veneta myself—the look is more classic, elegant. But I guess for you and yourgang, Tom Ford is high end.”
All of my men roll their eyes.
Reaper leans over to Brass. “Did he really insult us for being MC when he’s a sleazy mob boss?”
I agree with Reaper, but I’m more hung up on Bianchi referring to us as low class.Who the fuck cares about high end? Oh, right! Only uptight pricks like the weasel in front of me.
“What do you want, Bianchi?” I ask, not bothering to hide my irritation.
Bianchi finally raises his eyes to mine. “Oh, nothing in particular. Wanted to say hello, seeing as we’re in the same store.” Bianchi looks around the space and the faces present. “Where’s Pina? I would have guessed she would want to be present to make final calls.”
Reaper frowns. “What’s a Pina?”
“I think it’s a fruity drink,” Brass answers.
Bianchi rolls his eyes. “It’s not a drink, you uncultured swine.Pinais short forGiuseppina, which is Italian for Josephine.Pinais the same as calling her Jo, but sounds far more elegant. Perfect when you describe her and how refined she is.”
Brass and Reaper look at each other and burst out laughing. “Do you even know Jo? She prefers ripped jeans and working with her hands. ‘Refined’ isn’t in her character description.”
“Only because you’re incapable of seeing it,” Bianchi says offhandedly. “Is anyone going to tell me where Pinais? I see her usual security is here. Please, tell me you didn’t leave her alone again?”
“Don’t worry about her. She’s well protected and watched atalltimes,” Chase says. The warning is clear in his words—don’t fuck with her because I see everything.
Bianchi glowers but looks legitimately concerned. “Who is with her?”
Gauge crosses his thick arms across his chest. “Tony is with her.”
Bianchi does a double-take. “Tony? As in Tiny Tony?Myfucking Tony?”
