by Kim Linwood
He laughs. “Well, relative freedom at least. Don’t tell me Andrea DiFiero, the only heir to Emilio DiFiero, doesn’t know what I mean.”
Only too well. “Point taken. So what do we do here?” I gesture to the glasses.
“This, is Ratzeputz.”
“Hopefully it tastes better than it sounds.”
The evil glint in his eyes doesn’t look promising. “Ready?” He puts his fingers around the first glass and waits for me to do the same.
I’m about to be had, I can tell, but the day can’t really get much worse.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
I pick up the first glass and raise it to Montana in a silent toast and throw it back. He does the same.
At first all I can feel is the alcohol, but then the aftertaste hits. Ginger and spices burn their way down my throat and coat my mouth with a taste that doesn’t so much linger as it moves in, throws out all my stuff and dances naked across my taste buds. With stinky feet.
Oh.
My.
God.
“What have you done to me?” I wheeze out between coughs, while slamming the table with my hand. I sound like I’ve been on a three day bender.
Meanwhile, he puts down his glass with a firm clink and takes a drink of water.
I grab my water and chug, sighing in pleasure as the fire goes out. I glare at him. “Did they replace your throat with shoe leather at some point? Or did all of your nerve endings die in Berlin?”
He flashes a smile, that combined with the firm buzz I’m developing, makes me grin back like an idiot. “It takes a certain acclimation, but you have to admit, it’s worth it in the end. Or are you not up for the challenge?”
“What was your job in the Navy? Demolitions?” I cough again, but reach for the second glass.
“Funnily enough…”
“Really?”
“Are you that surprised? I certainly know how to make you explode.”
14
Andrea
Adele singing her heart out in a gutted house and throwing fine china at a wall, surrounded by glasses of water, is just not the same as me yowling like a cat in heat, surrounded by empty shot glasses. Actually, the only thing we really have in common is being incredibly overdressed for our surroundings.
My audience would probably prefer it if we shared musical talent. I know I would, but I refuse to let that hold me back.
The letters on the teleprompter swim in front of me, swirling and dancing like synchronized underwater ballet. Luckily, this isn’t my first time on the drunken Rolling in the Deep carousel.
Behind me, Montana lends me moral—okay, mostly physical—support.
“Andrea.” He gives my hips a shake.
I’m not putting enough wiggle into it? I throw my hands up in the air like I just don’t care.
“Andrea.” Wrapping an arm around my waist, he starts hauling me off the stage.
“What are you doing?” I make a grab for the mic, but he intercepts my arm and tucks it against my chest.
“Song’s over, siren. You see that guy?”
I blink, distracted by the feel of his broad chest plastered to my back. “The angry one?”
“Do you know why he’s angry?” He chuckles when I shake my head. “I slipped him fifty to play the song twice, but I think we’ll have a riot if we go for three.”
“Oh.” That makes sense. “Maybe Skyfall?”
He winces. “Yeah… let’s give it a little break first.”
I might be drunk, but I can tell when I’m being patronized. “I’ve lived in England for four years. My accent’s bloody perfect!” Actually, Evie laughs her ass off when I try, but I’m in a dive in the middle of Chicago. There’s a good chance I have the best English accent for miles.
I mean kilomotors.
Kilometers.
Whatever.
Something occurs to me as Montana carefully weaves me away from my rightful place in the spotlight. “Hey. Why aren’t you drunk too? You’ve had just as much to drunk as I have.”
Montana laughs. “Drink. And I am, but Babe, you’re forgetting something.”
“What?”
“I’m like twice your size.”
Mmm. I turn around and run my hands up his chest. It’s actually one of my favorite parts of him. Aside from the other parts.
“Good to know,” he murmurs with a chuckle.
Shit. I said that out loud? I wave my hands in the air to shoo away my slip-up. “I have to admit something.”
“Hm?” He swings me out of the way right before I barrel straight into a table full of Asian tourists. I guess everyone uses Yelp.
“When we came in here I almost bailed, but I’m really glad I didn’t. If I’d stayed there, someone would’ve died. I was five minutes from making last year’s Caporossi meltdown look like a family picnic. God.” I stop moving so quickly he nearly trips over me. “I’m supposed to marry one of them. Their answer to everything is to either blow it up or shoot it.”
Montana’s chest rumbles in agreement. Or maybe it’s a growl? Hard to tell. “You think bribes and throwing around your family name keeps your hands clean? Typical DiFiero.”
Whose side is he on?
“Yours.”
I stomp my foot, wishing for a second I hadn’t taken off my heels because it’s a lot less impressive in stockings. “Stop answering things I didn’t mean to say!”
“Well, isn’t this cozy? Gino’s not good enough for you?” a scratchy voice behind us interrupts, right before we slide back into our booth.
Montana spins, putting me behind him. I peer around his arm. There are at least three guys in black suits glaring at us. They’re big and brawny, not quite like my singing partner, but considering there are three of them, that’s probably a moot point. They straighten their shoulders like pufferfish trying to look big.
God, that's a funny image. I bite my lip hard, trying not to laugh in this guy's face. Even in my state, it's obvious he won't like that. But their little mouths, going pout-pout and…
I lose it.
Big, loud guffaws straight from my gut tear their way out, filling the karaoke bar in the space between two songs. Burrowing into Montana’s jacket, I hide my face. There's no way I'm going to be able to stop laughing at them if I maintain eye contact.
“What the fuck are you laughing at?” Yep. Pissed.
Montana sneers. “What do you want, Bruno?”
“I’m sure her daddy would love to know where she is. The way you two took off? Man, it was beautiful. Emilio’s bitch went nuclear.”
Hey! That’s my mother he’s talking about. Much as I agree with him, I’m not letting a Caporossi talk shit about my family. I push off Montana and turn to glower up at Bruno, instinctively trying to make myself look bigger as well.
But not like a pufferfish.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” I raise my hand, finger ready to jab into the jerk’s chest. “You know this guy?” I ask Montana accusingly.
“Sure he does.” The tallest of the three steps forward. “Don’t know your date very well, do you, darling?”
“Who’re you calling da—” When he steps out of the shadows, I blanch as I get a good look at his face. “Marco.”
“Please, just Marc. Marco is what Dad calls me, not my fiancée.” In another life he’d be handsome, but all I see in his face is the end of everything I’ve ever worked for.
The reality of the situation crashes down around me. So much for making our escape. I take a quick step away. Too quick. My heel catches on the foot of one of the guys that came in with Marc, and with a belly full of German fire-water, I don’t have the reflexes to save myself.
My mouth opens in surprise as I slip, arms flailing. Everyone around me slides out of sight until all I see is the ceiling above me. My stomach lurches and my last regret is that I didn’t get in a third round of Rolling in the Deep.
Right before I slam into the table behind me, Montana shoots out his arm
and catches me like I don’t weigh a thing, before gently easing me back on my feet. Heart pounding, I don’t care how it looks when I let him hold me close. Or when one of my hands flattens against his stomach as I recover from my close call.
Marc grabs the jacket of the guy I just tripped over. “Did you fucking do that on purpose?” Then, as if I just occurred to him, Marc shoves his man aside and reaches for my arm, trying to pull me away from Montana. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get your hands off of her. Cazzo!”
Montana knocks his hand aside and stares down Marc. They are nearly the same height, and even through the fog of panic and alcohol, the resemblance is striking.
“Don’t take your shit out on the girl, asshole.”
The girl? I desperately want a cup of black coffee and an hour to get my brain back together. Whatever is going on here, I get the feeling it’s not just about me.
Marc’s laugh is harsh and ugly. “The girl is mine. Or did you forget that?” He looks around the bar with disdain. “Was I supposed to sit there and play nice when one of my men tells me my fiancée is slumming around town with my brother? You’ll have to excuse my lack of manners, but I’ve got a serious issue with that.”
“Brother?”
“Half,” Montana says softly.
“BROTHER?”
“What? You don’t see it?” Marc smiles, but there’s nothing friendly about it.
He doesn’t understand my shock. After all, he isn’t the one I’ve slept with.
But Montana does. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, and feel it in the way he’s managed to put a mile between us without moving an inch. “Later.”
“No, now.” I shove myself away from all of them, taking in all the angry male faces. Every one of them looking at me, but none of them actually seeing me. I’m just a game piece to be bickered over.
“Get your stuff and come with me,” Marc orders. “The attitude is cute, but this isn’t the time.”
“I’m not talking to you!” I turn to Montana. “When were you going to tell me?”
Marc grabs me, yanking me away from his half-brother hard enough to make me yelp. “Stop looking at him!”
“Apologize to her,” Montana says. His voice is so calm it’s eerie.
The whole place is silent. At some point the music stopped, and we’re the new entertainment. People at the closest tables move out of the way. A flash goes off from the direction of the tourists. Great. Marc jerks his head, and Bruno immediately stalks towards their table, probably to destroy a little personal property.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s a bad idea to get involved in domestic disputes?” Marc’s hands tighten around me, then he nods at Montana before ordering his guys, “Deal with him.”
“No, wait—” I don’t even get to finish before Montana grabs Marc’s approaching goon and deflects him smoothly into a nearby table. This time there’s nobody there to save the day, and he lands with a crash, scattering champagne flutes and a huge plate of nachos.
Marc shoves me to the side and lunges at Montana. They slam together like rival bucks.
I back away from the chaos unfolding in front of me. There’s a lot to be said for the fantasy of having two men fight for my honor, but in real life it’s terrifying. I doubt my honor has even occurred to them, aside from as some vague male ego accessory.
Not-Bruno picks himself up off the floor, while Bruno shoves his way back from harassing innocent bystanders. They throw themselves into the fray, putting Montana on the defensive. He’s big, but he’s not two goons plus Marc big.
I look around desperately, grabbing an empty bottle of cheap champagne off the table of a stunned couple. “Can I just…”
They nod.
“Thanks.”
Holding something makes me feel better, but I can’t get a clear shot on… Who am I even supposed to hit? I scream as Marc snakes an arm around Montana’s neck and twists.
Right, defend Montana the liar, because… he’s outnumbered. And for some other reasons I don’t feel like thinking about too hard right now.
Afraid I’ll chicken out if I wait too long, I sneak up behind Not-Bruno and take a swing at the side of his head. The first try misses completely and almost spins me right onto my ass. After two quick corrective steps to regain my balance and a couple of blinks, I try again, and this time I connect with a dull thunk.
He stays up long enough to turn and give me a sad, slightly stunned look, then he slumps heavily to the floor. Bruno growls in my direction, and I take the opportunity to bonk him on the forehead. After a moment of looking profoundly surprised, his eyes cross and he lands on his buddy.
Two for two. Not bad. Maybe two for two-and-a-half.
Montana throws his head back with a grunt, catching Marc solidly in the face while he kicks them away from the pile of sleeping goons. Blood fountains from Marc’s nose, staining his mouth and jaw as they tear free of each other with nearly identical snarls.
“I’m so fucking sick of your shit.” Marc wipes a hand across his face, leaving bloody streaks on his jacket and face. “We should’ve done this ages ago.”
“Are you crazy?” Montana flips his slightly too long hair out of his eyes. He looks like a gladiator, which makes me tingle in some very inappropriate places considering the circumstances. “Andrea, grab your shit and get behind me.”
For some reason, when he’s the one saying it, I listen. I scramble into our booth and grab my shoes and his jacket.
“I’m not going to hurt her. She’s my fiancée. I’m not going to let you fuck this up.” Marc sniffles, in a hopeless attempt to hold the blood back.
“Too late, fuck-up,” Montana snaps.
“Oh, you’re calling me a fuck-up? That’s rich.”
A woman behind the bar holds a phone to her ear, talking excitedly. That signals trouble. “Guys?”
The goons pull themselves off the floor and get behind Marc, eyeing me and my bottle cautiously. I smile. They don’t seem to appreciate it.
The woman who made the call goes to the door and looks outside.
Montana doesn’t seem to hear me, he’s too focused on Marc. “Just calling it like I see it. You all fucked up this thing so badly I don’t even—”
“Guys!” Annoyed with being either their chew-toy or completely ignored, I slam the champagne bottle into the table next to us. Surprisingly, it doesn’t break, though the vibration that travels up my arm nearly makes me drop it. Sirens sound in the distance. “Cops!”
That gets their attention.
The goons burst into motion, grabbing Marc, who shoots me a look full of frustration and anger. “Get her.”
“Don’t even think about it.” I grip my bottle tight and glare in their direction. Bruno and his friend smartly look a little hesitant to follow their boss’s orders.
Marc sighs and glares at his brother. There’s no time to argue and he knows it. “If anything happens to her, I’m holding you responsible.”
Montana nods.
We need to get out of here too. I step towards the door but Montana grabs me by the shoulder and spins me around before dragging me in the opposite direction, towards the employee area.
“Do you know every backdoor in town?”
He opens his mouth.
“If you make a butt joke, I’ll club you,” I growl.
One look at me, and he bursts out laughing, even as he keeps us moving.
Over the door is a warning sign about an alarm. I point with my free hand. “Wait!”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “One, there’s a fifty-fifty chance it’s not even hooked up. Two, I think we sort of left making a quiet exit behind about ten minutes ago.”
“Right.” I stroke a hand across his cheek where a bruise is already forming. “You look like hell.”
“You should’ve seen the other guy.”
“I did.” But I was paying a lot more attention to this one.
His face softens, but there’s no time to get mushy
. The sirens stop and the front door slams open. “Let’s go.” He grabs my hand and tugs. Bottle in one hand, and his fingers in my other, I follow as he leads me out the door and down the alley. The alarm never goes off. “Why are you still holding that?”
Because it hadn’t occurred to me to drop it? “Fingerprints.”
“Good thinking, Nancy Drew.”
“Shut up, Miami.”
15
Andrea
“Save yourself. Go on without me.” Breathing hard, I lean against the cold, brick wall of an alley. Then I look around. It’s dark, a little creepy, and I have no idea where I am. “No, actually. Don’t.”
Montana chuckles. “I think we’re good. The cops probably just took a statement and left. Nobody that stuck around got hurt, and they can’t exactly chase down everyone who gets in a bar fight.” He looks me over. “You okay?”
My dress is pasted to my body with sweat and, from the smell of it, at least a few kinds of alcohol. There’s something stuck to the bottom of my foot, and even though it’s cold, I don’t want to transfer the ick from my stockings into my shoes. A brief moment of nausea hits me, courtesy of the shots, but I’m getting better. Our little jog and the cool air helped clear my head.
Did I seriously knock two guys out with a champagne bottle?
Did I really sing Rolling in the Deep twice?
Is my bodyguard-slash-sometimes-lover actually my arranged fiancé’s brother?
Stay tuned to the next episode of: The Real Life of a Mafia Princess.
I shrug. “Okay is not the word, but nothing two years in a nice hot bath won’t fix. You?”
His mouth quirks in an off-center smile. “Nothing’s broken.”
We stare at each other, silence stretching between us until I feel like I have to do something. I step forwards and examine his hand. Even in the dim light I can see the bruising on his knuckles. There’s a swelling over his left eye, and I trace it gently.
“This looks like it hurts.”
“Maybe we can raid the kitchen for a steak, or frozen peas when we get back, if you feel like playing nurse.”
