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My jaw ticks as I remember the sound of Gabe’s fist hitting the table last night. His quiet threat about rusty pen knives. “Were you trying to get her into the passenger seat or the trunk?”
“Wren doesn’t accept lifts,” Angelo says sharply. “She doesn’t get into cars. And you”—he grinds the cigarette under the heel of his wingtip—“are going to leave the girl alone.”
Gabe presses his lips together and glares at Wren for a few more seconds, before turning his back to us and storming over to his Harley without another word. The engine roars to life, headlights sweep over headstones in the graveyard, and he’s gone.
Angelo mutters something under his breath. “l think I’ll wait around for a while.”
The insinuation drips from the end of his sentence. Until Wren gets on the bus.
I nod tightly, before fishing my car keys out of my pocket. “Tell your wife Chef Marco is making her favorite chocolate lava cake tonight, so if she gets bored of petting abandoned ferrets, you guys should swing by—”
Angelo slices me off with a hand on my arm. My gaze drops to his grip, then up to his softened expression. He holds his other hand out in front of him, and I feel a knot form in the base of my throat.
I swallow it. Hold my brother’s eye as I put my hand out beside his. It’s still. Convincing. Seemingly satisfied, Angelo nods and turns his attention back to Wren.
“We’ll be onboard tonight. Rory and Tayce want to hang out with Penny, anyway.”
As I head back to my car, my eyes find the twinkling lights of Signora Fortuna over the water. A dark glee shivers down my spine and into my groin.
If I have to wait to take my frustrations out on a man, I’ll pass the time by playing with a certain red-head, instead.
