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Then the look fades.
I know if he were alone, there’d be a smile that follows that look. Instead, his eyes just warm and I can almost hear the words.
Fiorella. Missed you.
“Tried to stop her,” Marco says. “Tried to stop all of it, really. But Lilah . . .”
“Lilah is Lilah.” The sweet look turns to concern. “What the fuck happened to your face?”
“Told you. Tried to stop her,” Marco says, hands in the air like he had no part in this.
The man sitting for the meeting clears his throat.
“Marco, take Mr. Johnson to a room. I’ll have paperwork for him to sign in an hour or so. If he wants, he can go watch the girls while he waits.”
“Got it,” Marco says, and the man stands, probably used to unconventional business tactics, letting Marco lead him out of the room. “I’ll bring in the first-aid kit in a few.” Then the door clicks behind him. I look to my husband.
“She called my mother a whore,” I say, crossing my arms on my chest. “I’m done with her, Dante.” He stands from his desk, taking the three steps to where I’m pouting, then grabs me by the waist, lifts me, and places me on the edge of his desk. His hands go to either side of my face, and he pulls me in and presses a kiss to my lips.
It’s like whatever other chaos and questions he has can wait—he needs to kiss me first.
God, I really fucking love this man.
“Who?” he asks then moves his gaze to the cut in my eyebrow. He’s got that look like whatever name I say, he’s going to go find them and do worse.
I smile wide.
I can only hope.
“Angela Sigano.” The words come out almost cheerful, and his eyes snap to mine. “Afterwards, she said I was going to prison and that you’d lose your mind when you found out.”
“She said you were going to prison after she did this to you?” The smile gets bigger and I shake my head, ignoring the dull ache there.
“Oh, no. I did this myself,” I say, pointing to my face. “I went to tackle her to the ground and clipped my head on the corner of a table.” I wonder how many times I’ll have to repeat this.
So totally worth it.
“You what?” Dante asks, looking me over, confusion written on his face.
“I hit my head on the table. Marco said it shouldn’t need a stitch.”
“No, before that.”
“I tackled her to the ground.” I smile and I kinda feel like a cat who brings in a dead bird. I’m proud; Dante is confused at best.
“Fiorella . . . I need an explanation as to why you attacked a Don’s daughter at your bridal shower.” Marco knocks, and Dante calls out, giving him the okay to come in.
Chances are, Marco thinks we’re already fucking in here.
He smiles as he walks in, shaking his head at me and handing off a large first-aid kit to Dante.
“Johnson chose to watch the girls,” he says. Dante nods before Marco leaves, the door clicking as he locks it behind himself.
Okay, he definitely thinks we’re going to fuck in here.
“Angela?” he asks, opening the kit and riffling through it.
I try not to think about why a strip club needs such an intensive first-aid kit the size of a large briefcase, especially not when Dante seems so familiar with all the items in it.
