“Just say what? He got skewered roasting marshmallows?” Junior snaps.
I finish with the IV bag, but I’m nosy as hell and want to hear the conversation, so I fiddle with the medications on the dresser.
“You say nothing.”
There’s a long silence and I turn around because I get the sense they’re communicating without words. Sure enough, all eyes are on me.
“Desiree, go downstairs,” Junior says. No please, no thank you. But that’s pretty much par for the course with him.
And of course, bluster is par on my course. “Why don’t you three go downstairs?” I challenge. “My job is in this room.”
Nico and Stefano freeze and I realize I’ve made a huge mistake. Both shoot glances at Junior as if expecting he’s going to explode. Since I’m the one who mouthed off, their fear must be for me. I guess mouthing off when it’s just Junior is one thing. Mouthing off in front of others might be cause for correction.
An icy tingle races down my spine, but I toss my hair and raise my brows at Junior, keeping up my bluff.
He reaches for me, and catches my arm, but his grasp isn’t rough. He pulls me against his body, my back to his chest. One arm wraps around my waist, one hand cages my throat. Lips at my ear, he murmurs in a voice too low for the others to hear, “Baby, you are definitely getting punished for that.”
My pussy clenches at the rumble of sex in his voice.
I don’t say anything, but my breath comes in pants.
“Now listen up. We have shit to discuss, and unless you want to be more of an accessory than you already are, you need to get downstairs and out of earshot, capiche?”
The hand around my throat isn’t tight at all, and his thumb lifts to stroke the side of my jaw—a lover’s caress. Our backs are to the others, so it feels like a secret message to me. He’s seeking my compliance without losing face.
“Would it kill you to say please or thank you?” I mutter. I don’t know why I’m so stubborn—it’s just in my genes, I guess.
I feel his smile against my temple. “Per favore.” He releases me and I spin around and smirk, far too pleased with myself for getting a concession from this hard man. Of course, he has to go and smack my ass as I head out of the room, settling the score back firmly in his favor.
Pues. Now I know the truth. Junior Tacone gives the girl he’s screwing more leeway than his own brothers.
And I kind of love that.
I go downstairs and search Junior’s cabinets for something to make for dinner. He has pasta, so I put a pot of water on to boil. I’d unpacked fresh sausages from the groceries Paolo brought earlier—apparently he considers them a staple. I smile to myself at these Italian boys. They fit the stereotype in absolutely every way. It’s so cliché it’s almost funny.
The men come down about forty minutes later. Stefano wanders into the kitchen while Nico and Junior remain out in the living room, talking.
“We’re taking off.”
“Yeah? How long are you in town for?”
“We’re flying back tonight. Gotta run the business. Listen, you take good care of my brother, okay?”
I stop pushing the sausages around the frying pan and turn to face him. “Gio’s going to recover,” I promise. I’ve seen enough of these cases. I mean something could go wrong, but he’s got a really great chance of making a full recovery.
“I meant Junior,” Stefano corrects and I gape in surprise. He winks at me. “He has a real thing for you,” he says. “I haven’t seen him like this with a woman before.”
I still can’t seem to speak, I just stand there with my mouth open, wooden spatula in my hand.
“I hope you’ll forgive him for shoehorning you into this.”
I swallow.
He shrugs. “Well, it looks like you’re already busting his balls on a daily basis, so I probably don’t need to worry too much about you, right? You have our stronzo brother handled better than any of us.”
“What’s stronzo?”
He grins. “Asshole.”
“Stefano, get the fuck away from her,” Junior growls from the living room.
His grin widens, and he throws his hands out, Italian style. “What? I’m not flirting. I’m engaged—you know that. Just giving her a few pointers for handling you.” He winks at me again and turns, sauntering out in his thousand dollar suit and shiny dress shoes.
Junior comes into the doorway and gives me a suspicious up and down sweep with his eyes before seeing them to the door. While he’s gone, I plate the food for us and set it on the table, then sit down and start eating.
* * *
Junior
Madonna, she cooks.
She cooks, she cleans, she’s a better nurse than Florence fucking Nightingale. Where did this woman come from? It’s stupid, but the fantasy of keeping her here beyond Gio’s recovery flashes through my mind.