Page 22 of The Boss
“Women and weddings, huh? Totallypazza!”Papa calls me crazy but has yet to look in my direction. “Still she’s ready for you, she’ll make a great wife. Not so crazy once she has her spa days and her shopping trips.”
“Only crazy allowed is in the bedroom,” Quinn senior says, laughing and coughing on his own joke. He’s clearly sick and I notice now that his left arm is hanging limp on one side. “Amantes!Lovers. The crazy ones make the best lovers.”
“Hm.” That is all Quinn says in reply to their lewd commentary. He fills his plate as family style dishes are passed around. I’m disappointed to see he doesn’t mind all the fish, when Vix’sreport said he was a red meat and potatoes man, based on her surveillance of his staff’s grocery shopping.
“Ah, my son,” his father goes on. “Always so serious. Lighten up, my boy, it’s a party!”
“It’s business,” he states. He shifts his attention like a heavy spotlight to my father. “We still need to nail down when you’ll arrive in New York and how many men you’re sending.”
“R-right. Yes,” my papa stammers,stammers,as he begins. I break out in goosebumps again, watching my father cower for even half a second.
The men talk about issues the Irish are having in New York for maybe an hour while I pretend I’m not listening. Quinn speaks quietly but he has a firm, deep voice with a hint of a Bostonian accent. A twinge of Irish descent, too. He ignores stares and whispers and only engages with the two men across from him. I play dumb, even feeding Marlon bits of my food and greeting a few of my young cousins who want some of my time. But my ears are as laser focused as my fiancé’s attention.
The Irish have a stronghold in New York, a factory along the Long Island Sound. The Russians run New York and apparently they don’t like Quinn’s presence on the Sound, even though he and his clan don’t work anywhere near Manhattan or the other boroughs. The stronghold is surprising since the Irish are so tiny compared to the strength of the Volotov organization, why do the Russians care about one measly factory? On the other hand, why does Quinn care so much about this one spot that he’s partnering with the Italians—marrying me—to protect it?
I don’t get the answers, but I still learn a few things to file away to research when I get home. I also realize this particular research can’t involve hiring Vix, since she is a Volotov. Bummer.
Already this man, who has yet to look my way since we sat down, is cramping my style. I am the one that’s supposed todo the cramping! But I’ve been so engrossed in eavesdropping, learning everything I can, I forgot my whole plan. There is finally a lull in their conversation, so I start to clear my throat and don my persona, when Quinn shifts next to me. I realize he’s moving so he can take off his leather jacket.
Heat radiates beside me, either because he was hot under the leather or because his muscles are just used to screaming out under his taut skin. The short black sleeve t-shirt is molded to him like a second skin, revealing huge biceps, huge pecs…he’s just huge. I snap my mouth shut, realizing I was gaping at the man.
What the hell?
I’m used to large men, muscular men. Powerful, scary men. None of this is new to me. So what makes him seem so…different?
One thing that’s obviously different is the lack of ink. All made men are covered in their clan’s themes, symbols, and creeds. Tattoos begin during training when made men are just tweens. By the time a soldier gets to his thirties, there isn’t much skin left. His arms are totally bare. Weird.
C’mon Luna, they’re just arms! Get a grip!
So I do. On the veiny forearm nearest me. I make my voice as squeaky and annoying as possible, “Brian, honey, if you all are done talking boring business, I want you to meet some people, starting with—”
“Quinn.” He cuts me off.
“Huh?” I squeak.
“Call me Quinn.” He pulls his arm from my grasp and begins to stand, “And I do believe we’re done here.”
“Wait,” I stand too, shocked. I quickly put my annoying mask back in place, “Baaaabe,” damn, I sound insufferable, “we haven’t danced yet!”
“I don’t dance.”
“Humph,” I pout, “Okay, well we need to take some photos at least!”
“I—”
“I know, I know, it’s film and you’ll get the negatives. The photographer is waiting at the waterfall.”
He lets out a pained sigh and I fight the urge to smile. Everyone is watching us in horror. Even I can’t stand me right now. I catch Ellie’s eye for a split second and she has her mouth covered with her napkin, but her eyes are wide. I also see Zeno shaking his head with a grin, next to Bosco who looks confused.
Quinn starts walking toward the waterfall in the corner with purpose, eager to get this over with. I see two guns and one large knife on his back, holstered in plain sight, and wonder how many more weapons are hidden. I grab my dog before following after him. I walk in ridiculous tiny steps, clacking my heels on the floor and holding out my dog purse on one arm like an idiot.
At the makeshift pond’s edge, he turns back to wait for me. And he finally spots the dog. He squints at it, probably trying to figure out if it’s a rat or kitten or some other species.
I smile and bat my over-the-top fake lashes as I reach him, “Thisis who I was trying to tell you about, Marlon Brando, the love of my life.”
He stares at the chihuahua for a beat, then slowly locks eyes with me. “You don’t have a dog.”
Shit!
