The bastard thought he taunted me—I grinned into my whiskey.
A few of his guys started to emerge from the shadows, creeping out like monsters in the night. That was all right. If it was other monsters they were after, they got their wish. And if he had given over the effing shoe—damn how ridiculous that sounded even in my own head—we would’ve had some fun. A few blows to release the tension and it would have been over.
Uncle Tito raised his glass, signaling that he wanted another brandy. He sent me a sly look. Tito was an old gangster, all right, with tools that you never wanted to see hidden in his bag. Donato and the rest of his men moved out of their own shadows, coming to stand around the table that Rocco occupied.
Both Fabio and Black Glasses seemed to sense the danger in the air. Black Glasses rounded up his buddies. Fabio rounded up his harem. They all left lickety-split.
Two rules. No one touched Nick Lomas but me. No one touched Knox but Gabriel Roberts. The rest would fall as they may.
The crack of a pool stick electrified the bar. One of Nick’s buddies used it as a weapon to the back of Donato’s head. The Italian gladiator stood strong, not even bowing to the hit, and then he ran his teeth over his bottom lip, smiled, and turned around, grabbing the man by his neck, lifting him off his feet.
He wouldn’t kill him—this was supposed to be fun—but I knew he’d make him regret the decision.
The girl still danced, too afraid of Nick’s retribution to stop.
“Carmen,” I said, finishing my whiskey. “Run.”
It really wasn’t fair, me against him. But he asked for it. Who was I to deny him? Before he had time to move, I lifted him off his feet by his throat, watched as he flailed and slapped and gurgled. The urge to crush his trachea swam dangerously close to the surface.
“The shoe,” I had demanded.
He pointed to a black swinging door in the back of the bar.
I set him down and he rasped, holding his throat. He jumped on my back as I made my way. An easy skull to the nose quickly loosened that hold. Still, he stood straight, blood pouring into his mouth and slipping down his chin.
I gave in then and we fought. He caught me above the eyebrow, and it was a distant fire in the background, warmth coaxing me out of the cold. I knew I had to stop—every finger of his hand had been broken and more bones to come.
The vision of my wife, her small bones in his thick hands, snapping, her eye turning black and blue, her mouth split because her tongue was like a whip, spurred me on. And it was hard not to see Maggie Beautiful. She was a single woman in the world, trying to make her way. I had put down a few that attempted to assault her.
The shoe saved his life the first time.
I dragged him with me into the back room, flinging him to the floor. Lockers lined the walls, spray-painted and littered with stickers.
“Which one.”
“Fuck you!” He spat bloody saliva on my boot.
He had some dignity left. We’d see what was left when I was through.
I peered over him. “You like beating women? Does it make you feel like more of a man?”
He grinned, the lines of his teeth outlined by his own blood. “Can’t stand the thought of your wife wanting me? I didn’t even have to feel her pussy to know she was wet for me. When my tongue found her ear, she moaned and creamed.” He made a pleasurable noise in his throat.
It was the two Irishmen who saved him the second time—or it was my wife’s grace, not for him, but for me.
I almost threw them off, but somehow sense found me. Gabriel and Michael were on each side, my brothers and Tito in front. My brothers and Tito encouraged me with their eyes. The bastard’s tongue came forward a little bit more—I was close to pulling it out.
Gabriel put a hand to my shoulder. Michael’s hand settled on the other.
“Think of your wife.”
I had seen them both fighting in the bar; Knox was no matter to a man like Gabriel Roberts, and he had hit the floor not long after the fight exploded. Michael Roberts took no less than three at a time. But something about the way they fought seemed almost timed together. They were mostly back-to-back.
They had spoken of their Legion on the way over, and I understood then why together they were more powerful.
“My wife,” I repeated, and the pressure to pull increased.
“Yoth wifth,” Nick Lomas said, tongue-tied. “Pleath. Tink of herth.”
