Page 7 of Stolen Bases

“Mamma.”

“What? I’m just saying. Maybe you need a little”—she points down between my legs—“tune-up.”

“Oh my god, you did not just use tune-up as a euphemism for sex.”

Mamma barks a laugh.

I cover my face with my palms. “You’re so embarrassing.”

She grabs the plastic bin of napkins and rests it on her hip. “Why can Zia Rose say stuff like that without you freaking out?”

“Cause she’s not my mom,” I quip.

“Whatever you say, dear.” She makes her way to the storage closet, leaving me to wipe off the water spots on the utensils.

The bell above the door rings, drawing my attention.

My big brother, Nico, struts in, looking like he was just crowned king. He’s wearing a black dress shirt that’s almost unbuttoned to his belly button and shiny charcoal dress slacks. His hair is slicked back, and he’s wearing a thick platinum chain with his number eighty-two encrusted in diamonds around his neck.

Nico is objectively handsome with his dark olive skin, lots of tattoos, thick black hair, and foggy-gray eyes—identical in color to mine. But right now, he looks like a modern Italian mobster standing in the middle of our family restaurant with a grumpy scowl on his face.

A chuckle erupts from my chest at the sight of him.

His thick brows pinch together as he turns his angry glare on me. “What are you laughing at, Lia?”

“You.”

“What the fuck for?” he growls, sending me into a fit of giggles.

Nico has a huge personality, and it ranges from one extreme to the next. He can come off as conceited and rude as hell, but I swear he has a big heart. You just have to dig deep—like, really deep, below all the layers of asshole—to find it.

“You look like a stereotypical mafioso in that get-up.” I run my finger up and down his body, and his eyes follow the path.

Nico’s frown breaks into a smile as he chuckles. “So I do.”

“Should I start calling youcapo?”

“Fuck off, Lia. This is Brioni, and I look good.” He pulls the cuff of his sleeves down and smooths out his shirt, shooting me a cocky smirk.

That grin might work on some dewy-eyed girl with dreams of being a baseball WAG, but not me. I’m his sister, and it’s my job to knock him down a peg or two.

“Sure.” I scoff at him. “If you’re into that whole Soprano thing.”

“I’m going to kick your ass, you little shit.”

“You wish.”

“Nico!” Mamma shouts in delight, cutting us off.

She rushes over to fawn over her baby boy, and I roll my eyes as I watch her wrap him up in one of her big hugs that is like love incarnate. He lets her fuss over him and kiss his cheeks. It’s sweet. And annoying.

“What brings you to the restaurant? Didn’t you have your big signing today?” She brushes imaginary lint off his jacket and looks two seconds away from licking her thumb to get dirty off his cheek.

Leaving the Southern California Saints after seven seasons, my brother officially signed with the L.A. Evaders. He’s looking for a championship, so he left them. San Francisco offered him more money, but he opted to stay here in Los Angeles. As the only man in a house full of women, Nico has made it his job to take care of us, so of course he chose the team that would keep him close by.

See what I mean? Big heart.

When he got drafted into the MLB, he was in his early twenties, and while most guys his age would have gone on shopping sprees buying fancy cars or expensive watches, my brother went out and spent his hard-earned paycheck on his family. He bought Mamma and Zia Rose new cars, remodeled our childhood home, sent my cousins to fashion and culinary school, and he even helped remodel Belladonna.

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