“Cunts-R-Us?” Rosa suggests, making Matteo snort with laughter.
“Mercenaries,” I murmur, putting some of the pieces together. “He’s building an army.”
“He already has an army,” Pietro says. “He’s building an invasion. I asked him about it once, and he brushed me off. Said it was all part of a plan for the family.”
We all now know what the plan was, and what Pietro’s role in it was supposed to be. He falls silent, and I fight the urge to run over there and stomp his face into bloody pulp with my boot. “So,” says Rosa, her face a little paler but her tone staying steady, “what would happen if Vincenzo and the Grand Ball Sack went to war?”
“It’s not just Vincenzo, I don’t think,” Pietro tells us. “This stuff was global. He could be thinking bigger than the US.”
He pushes Moonface away as gently as it’s possible to move an animal her size and sits upright. His legs still appear broken, but that’s okay by me. Easier to keep track of the asshole if he can’t walk away. “I can help,” he pleads. “I know stuff, and I know how his mind works. I’ll be able to access his records, his calendar, whatever. I want to help because… Well, for all kinds of reasons. But one of them is this: If there is a war, with Vincenzo or whoever, then it won’t only be them who gets hurt. There’s always collateral damage, innocents harmed. I don’t want that, and I don’t think you guys do either, even if it’s only because it threatens to expose you. Even if it’s just because it’s bad for business.”
I can’t argue with him there. Worrying about the innocent isn’t my style. I barely recognize innocence when I see it, and I don’t worry about protecting the poor little humans from the big bad wolf—but Rosa does. She cares with every cell of her being, and that’s enough for me. Plus, he’s right. A war would be bad for business. The Cosca is all I’ve known for my entire long life, and as much as I hate Vincenzo, the Cosca itself is part of me, and I want to protect it.
“Things have gone even more off the rails since you’ve been gone, Boss.” Matteo throws a handful of chips into his mouth. He loves food, the junkier the better. “The Don’s been bringing in more fuckups. Carlos is strutting around like a major general. It’s like a war zone already. Freya’s losing her shit.”
“Who’s Freya?” Rosa pipes up, frowning. That’s interesting… Is she jealous?
“She’s kinda hard to describe,” Matteo answers. “She basically grew up at Vincenzo’s court. Was dumped there as a kid. She’s, what, mid-twenties now? Not sure. She’s human, and I can’t gauge that shit so good anymore. She’s a little kooky, but she’s sweet, and she gets upset when new people turn up.”
“She’s basically like Moonface in human form,” I add. “Except she probably doesn’t weigh as much. We can’t worry about Freya right now, Matteo. You know that.”
He nods, but it’s clear he doesn’t agree. His heart is as big as a planet, and he’ll always worry about the weak. It makes him a better man than me, but a worse soldier.
“Look, guys,” Rosa says, pushing her plate away and leaning back in her chair. “It’s been a lot of fun chatting about the upcoming apocalypse and all, but I’m bushed. I’m guessing tomorrow will be no easier than today, and unlike you animals, I need some sleep. Luca, take me to bed.” She looks directly at me, her green eyes tired but mischievous.
Who the fuck is going to refuse a command like that? “Matteo,” I say, standing but keeping one eye on my woman. “Can you deal with the mess on the floor?”
He glances at Pietro, who has managed to crawl over to the couch and is leaning against it and staring at me as though he’s imagining running a cheese grater over my skin.
“Sure thing, Boss,” Matteo says, a grin on his battered face as he looks from Rosa to me. “Sweet dreams.”
It’s not my dreams that will be sweet. Not with a naked Rosa lying beside me.
CHAPTER 20
ROSA
His room is on the top floor, in what would have maybe been the servants’ quarters back in the day. The ceilings slope, and at several points, they’re low enough for him to crack his head on. A masochistic choice of room for a man so tall.
“How many times?” I ask, gazing around at the dark blue walls, the functional furniture, the old hardback copy of an Agatha Christie mystery on the table.
“How many times what?” He looks around himself, likely trying to imagine how it appears to someone else.
“How many times did you crack your head before you learned when to duck?”
“Oh, not many,” he says breezily, his hand going to his skull. “I got the hang of it after the first thousand or so. I… I don’t normally bring anyone up here. You know, women.”
I’m not surprised. It feels more like a prison cell or a monk’s hermitage than a bedroom. Clean, fit for purpose, no personal flourishes. Only the bed is out of place. It’s huge, with an old-fashioned brass frame and silk sheets. Black silk sheets, which make me gulp. That’s exactly the way I imagined it back when this man was a confusing erotic fantasy. He’s still that, except now I know how it feels to have those gorgeous lips clamped around my nipples.
“Yeah? Where do you take them, then? Do you have a sex dungeon in the basement?”
He stares at me, his head crooked to one side, a little half grin on his face. “I can hear your heartbeat, Rosa. You’re excited about the thought of a sex dungeon, no?”
Damn. How’s a girl supposed to keep any air of mystery when he’s around? There’s just no way to lie about this stuff.
“Yeah, maybe I am. It’s all very… bewildering.”
“What is, cara mia?”
