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Smithy threw the keys in the air, and I caught them. He pushed off the car and signaled to the coffee shop on the other side of the street.
“Nature’s calling.”
“Feel free to pick up.”
He came back after five minutes, all smiles.
“If your husband ever asks, please don’t tell him I even mentioned that I’m capable of peeing. He just might cut off my dick for reminding you that it is there.”
He surprised me with the banter, and I shook my head, smiling.
“Wolfe’s not like that.”
“You’re kidding, right? Wolfe cares about everything you do or are exposed to, including annoying radio commercials and that street you hate because there’s a stray cat living there.”
“We need to find it a home,” I pointed out, sliding into the driver’s seat and dragging it forward to adjust it to my small frame.
I fixed the mirrors, then sighed and turned on the keyless ignition. The vehicle purred to life. I wrapped my fingers around the wheel just as Smithy slid into the seat next to me.
“Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
He gestured with his freckled hand toward the horizon. He had a mane of red-orange hair and matching eyelashes.
“Take us home, Frankie.”
It was the first time he’d called me Frankie, and for some reason, it made my heart flutter.
My mother called me Vita Mia, my father hadn’t called me anything at all recently, and Wolfe referred to me as Nemesis or Francesca. Angelo referred to me as goddess, and I missed it.
I missed him.
I hadn’t seen or spoken to him in a lifetime. I contemplated texting him to check if he was fine, but I didn’t want to enrage my husband.
Instead, I asked Mama if he was doing okay during our daily chats.
She said that Angelo’s father, Mike, was livid and complaining to Papa about my husband’s unfair behavior toward his son, which only put more strain on their already problematic relationship since my sudden marriage.
Things didn’t look too good for the men of The Outfit these days.
I slid out of the parking space and started for Wolfe’s mansion. Our mansion, I guessed.
I rounded the corner, my heart slowing down from the sudden rush of adrenaline of sitting behind the wheel, when Smithy groaned.
“That Volvo behind us is tailgating the fuck out of our ass.” His Irish accent came out when he was upset.
It unsettled me to be in a car with an Irishman from Chicago even though I knew Smithy had no affiliation with the underworld and had probably been thoroughly checked before he accepted the job as Senator Keaton’s driver.
I glanced in the rearview mirror and noticed two people I immediately recognized. Two Made Men who worked for the Bandini family. Meaty, six-foot-five type of beasts who were usually sent to handle business that required less conversation and more muscle.
The one behind the wheel flashed me a rancid, rotten-toothed smirk.
Shoot.
“Speed up,” Smithy ordered.
“The street is crowded. We could get someone killed.” My eyes danced frantically, and I gripped the wheel tighter.
