Page 30 of Driftwood Daffodil 3

“You better back off,salope.”

Ha!

Gio’s brow arched and for a second I thought I had him.

“Je vais te baiser comme une chienne.”

My face dropped.

Seriously? Gio spoke French too? Of course he did. Gio Mancini had to be better at everything. With his voulez-vous’ and bonjours. He could’ve at least spoken it in the backwoods broken French that I knew a word or two of, instead of the smooth, classic I’m going to fuck you with my tongue kind.

“Don’t try to out French me.”

I’d like to see him spend the night with a family of raccoons without getting bitten.

He tipped his head and eyed me for a split second. “You have no idea what I said, do you?”

That was beside the point. Sure, I could’ve learned more words or full sentences if I wanted too, but that would require effort on my part. And effort was exhausting. Know what didn’t take effort? Shooting a gun.

“See this rifle.” I pushed my hands forward, jabbing the barrel into his chest. “It means I’m in control.”

“Awe.Ty milyy.”

My eyes narrowed on his condescending smirk. “That didn’t sound French.”

So much for him being fluent.

“That’s because it was Russian.”

Russian really? Show off. “Why don’t you tell me to fuck off in Portuguese?”

“Vá se foder.”

My face once again dropped. “I hate you.”

Gio shrugged. “So, shoot me.”

Did he think I wouldn’t do it, because I would? If I could shoot my own brother in the foot, then I could easily shoot him.Mind you what happened with Kato was an accident, and this would be murder, but was there really any other way this fucked up relationship would end? We could barely stand being around each other, let alone spend a lifetime together.

I figured we’d make it to like thirty before one of us snapped. And by that time I would have that fur trimmed skimpy bathrobe all rich ladies had, to answer the door in when the cops came to tell me that my husband died under suspicious circumstances.

“If you’re gonna do it,” Gio jerked on the rifle, jarring my arms. “Then fucking do it.”

The impatient prick needed to give me a minute. I wasn’t ready for this kind of seriousness in my life. The only bathrobe I had was terrycloth.

“Come on,” Gio yelled. “What are you waiting for?”

“Fur and sheer fabric.” I yelled back.

I already had to give up my future plans for beer cans on the front lawn while my third husband sat in a broken lawn chair. He was not going to make me give up this dream as well.

Confusion pulled Gio’s brows together. “What?”

“Is there something wrong with wanting the right bathrobe?”

One should always dress appropriately, and what kind of murderous widow answered the door in a terrycloth bathrobe? I had some standards. Clearly not when it came to men, but that was a different conversation for another time.

Gio stared at me.

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