Mr. and Mrs. Rossi

“You’re not going anywhere,” Dante ordered, “you’re staying right here where I can keep an eye on you. I’ll be damned if you pull one of your disappearing acts on me again.”

Another snicker came from the group. Harley guessed it was one of the Andersons-no-relation. “Will one of you get my bag? I just need the black one sitting on my bed.”

“If there’s a bed,” TJ said before trotting toward her bedroom. She wondered how he knew which one was hers. Dante’s penetrating stare irked her.

“What?”

“Harley, you’ve been shot, fallen out a window.”

“Shot at and I jumped.”

“You have staples in your head and two cracked ribs.”

Harley’s breathing reflected the state of her ribs. It made sense. She did hit the water pretty hard after bouncing off the awning over the deck. Admittedly it wasn’t her finest hour. “So, you patched me up and now I’m as good as new,” then to irk him, she raised her brow, “I mean you trust the work you do, right?”

Before Dante had a chance to answer, TJ returned with her bag next to the broken coffee table. Since Dante wouldn’t move from her side, she pulled her legs up toward her chest, fighting the pain in her ribs and worked her way into a standing position. The rest of Dante’s team lurched forward to catch her. She batted them away. “I’m fine!”

To stay fine, Harley sat back on the couch and used one hand to open her bag. She extracted a few grenades, her favorite Sig and more importantly, the small hard black tack box she had at the bottom of the duffle bag. Some might have a security blanket to keep them company—Harley liked to make sure she always had her submachine gun. The HK MP7, fitted with a suppressor that sat cushioned in its case. She planned on taking it with her today as soon as she got out of here, which wouldn’t be too long. Whenever the case was open, a signal went off to Tai. The case was only opened when there was danger. She smiled to herself thinking about how Dante’s team consisted of six men. Mak’s team only needed two players.

Along with finding all her weapons, Harley found her thigh holster, which lifted the hem of her no

w useless dress and fitted herself with her .22. It hurt like hell, but she stood and pulled the top of her dress down just a little and reached for her favorite war bra. Aware of the grown men, Harley turned her back on them and continued to peel down the top of her dress. The white pushup bra was custom fitted with a clasp fitted for a holster. She’d have to wear a loose fitting t-shirt, which she’d already spied, and her shorts would work well with her thigh holster. She adjusted the .22 higher to hide under her denim shorts. A folded white T-shirt with a faded picture of Michael Jackson lay in her bag. She turned enough to reach for it, groaning when she had to stretch her arms. T-shirt in hand, Harley turned her back on the men. Dante stared at her as if she’d sprouted two heads.

“What?” she asked.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Looks like I’m getting ready.”

“For what?”

“I have a job to do.”

Cole cleared his throat. Dressed with her bra and her dress rolled down to her waist, Harley spun around at him. The men all turned around quickly or diverted their attention toward the ceiling. “Oh my God, you guys are a bunch of pansies. I have on a Goddamn bra, I’m not naked.” The fact no one moved or dared to look at her pissed her off even more. She was their equal. “My bathing suits show more.”

“They’ll stay turned around,” Dante barked. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re here and we’re here and we’ll handle the situation. So you can sit back and relax. Fucking sit here and have a good old time playing catch up with you old boyfriend. The real men are here to save the day.”

Anger infused with humor, Harley let out a cackle. He might as well have told her to get her nails done. “You’re serious.”

“I’m dead serious, Harley. You’re not going anywhere,” Dante rose, loomed over her, and tried intimidating her with his height.

Unafraid, Harley crossed her arms over her bra and laughed again. “Get this straight, Rossi,” Harley seethed, “I don’t need any man to save me.”

She continued to dress herself with strapping her Sig to the clasp at her bra. Dante grabbed her wrist from behind and restrained her from working, jerking her body against his. Humiliation raced through her. Heat scorched her cheeks. He wouldn’t dare try this with any of his teammates. The thought entered her mind to knee him in the groin but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

The bedroom door opened and before anyone could react, Julio roared, storming between them like a maniac. Back in the day Julio was known for his cool and style. No one messed with him, partly because he came from one of the most prestigious families in town with three equally badass brothers, but because he had a way of intimidating most people with just one look.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Julio pulled Harley from Dante’s grip and pushed her behind his tall frame, protecting her. Barstools fell over crashing to the feathered sprinkled floor as Dante’s team scrambled to get between them. The room felt more like a bar scene than the suite of a five-star hotel. Her mind screamed but nothing escaped her throat. A pounding echoed in the room and for a moment Harley swore someone was at the door before she realized it was her heart slamming against her ribs.

“Her husband, who in the hell do you think you are?”

“I’m Hannah’s father, and this is her mother. I’ll be damned if I let you handle her like this.”

The worst way to let the truth out just happened. Harley felt guiltier now than she did when Tito walked in on the curious position. This was not how she ever wanted her secret to get out.

Dante looked over Julio’s shoulders. His eyes pierced into hers searching for the truth. She couldn’t do anything but look away.

“Ah, fuck me!” he growled before storming out the door.