Page 62 of Anti-Heroes in Love Duet
“Non male,” he praised.
Not bad.
I huffed, blowing an errant curl out of my face as I struggled to break free of his hands pinning mine to the mat by my head. “I haven’t had to fight someone so fat before. It’s a lot of weight to offset.”
His laughter scored through me like a shot of grappa. He leaned back, releasing my hands to pat his tight, boxed stomach. “I like your mama’s pasta.”
“I can tell,” I sniffed, but inside, my blood was bubbling and popping, warm inside my veins.
For one second, I wondered, was this comradery?
I was close with Beau. We saw each other all the time, snuggled and chatted, shopped and dined. But we had been friends for five years. It made me realize I hadn’t made a new friend in a very long time and maybe, I was out of practice.
But that was kind of what it felt like lying there with the urge to laugh in my belly while a big mafioso crushed my torso where he straddled me after his fake attack.
Like maybe we could be friends.
“Che palle,” someone exclaimed from the door. “Is this the way we train now, Boss?”
I raised into a crunch so I could see the door only to wish I hadn’t.
The short man from yesterday who I now surmised was Marco, and the big one, Adriano, along with Frankie, the Grouch, Jacopo, and the Japanese man I hadn’t met yet all stood in the doorway watching us.
I flopped back to the mat and wished briefly for a return to my senses.
“Only when I’m training her,” Dante said flippantly over his shoulders before he rolled to standing with utter ease and offered me his hand to help me up. “Amici, let me formally introduce Elena Lombardi, my lawyer and unwilling roommate.”
Marco winced. “He does snore.”
“Thankfully, I have a separate room,” I said dryly, pulling my hand from Dante’s lingering grip after I stood to offer it to the short man with the strong Brooklyn accent. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Marco.”
His thick brows arched comically wavy lines into his forehead like a cartoon character. “You’re a real classy woman.”
A little laugh escaped me at his reverence as he kissed the back of my hand. “Thank you, I think.”
“For sure,” he said like it was no problem. “This here is Frankie, he’s the brains. Adriano is the brawn, but he also cooks like a fucking dream. Chen is our secret weapon, and Jaco here is… hey, Jaco? Why do we keep you around again?”
Jacopo scowled at him while the others laughed.
“Are you…?” I wasn’t exactly sure how these things worked. “Capos too?”
They laughed again, but it was Dante who stepped in line with me to say, “Rule number three, don’t ask questions.”
“Because you won’t give me the answers,” I bandied back.
I’d grown up in Naples, so I knew all about the antiquated constructs of our culture around women. We weren’t allowed in on “the business” because we weren’t to be trusted.
“Because you won’t like the answers,” he surprised me by offering.
“You skipped rule number two,” I reminded him.
His grin was feral, lips so red they seemed stained with wine pulled back over big, white teeth. “Rule number two, you learn how to fight.”
“I just showed you,” I argued, side-eyeing the assembled men, all visibly strong andscarred, even the short guy, Marco. “I can defend myself.”
“Not from me,” Dante countered.
“Not from us,” Marco agreed a second later.
