Rounding the corner, Marcus spied Luca leaning against the kitchen doorway, coffee mug in hand.
“You look like shit,” Luca drawled.
Marcus grunted and shoved past him into the kitchen, where his other three brothers were gathered.
Lorenzo was hunched over his laptop, fingers tapping out financial Morse code. Giovanni moved at the stove like bacon was his love language. Antonio sipped his Bloody Mary with the kind of smug calm reserved for men whose stocks, and egos, were always up.
“I’ll have one of those,” Marcus muttered.
“Perfect timing,” Giovanni said cheerfully. “Hope you’re hungry.”
“So,” Antonio said, pouring another Bloody Mary and sliding it across the table as Marcus dropped into a chair, “did you get rid of her?”
“Apparently,” Marcus said, voice flat, “she’s developed a sudden fondness for honoring commitments.”
His brothers exchanged a look. One Marcus knew too well. Trouble was brewing.
“Can’t fault her for having principles,” Giovanni said at last.
Marcus rolled his eyes. “She’s fine hurling a stiletto like a javelin but give her a promise and suddenly she’s the Patron Saint of Moral Obligation.”
Luca pulled out a chair, flipped it around, and straddled it. “Perhaps we should revisit the idea of your admitting you’re Mr. Uptight.”
Antonio closed his laptop. “Odds are high, hating Marcus would win out over any promise she made, and she’d run back to Manhattan.”
“I’ve given it a lot of thought, and you guys were right.” Marcus raked a hand through his hair. “A pissed-off Frankie is a loose cannon we can’t afford to light. No telling what she’d say to Carter should the woman corner her for an interview.”
Giovanni grimaced. “We can’t give Carter that opening. If she gets Marcus’s name as the victim of the wild stiletto, she’ll start digging and won’t stop until she finds her next big story. Something that will end with his image on national news.”
“So,” Lorenzo said with a slow, vicious smile, “it’s time to implement Plan B.”
“If we’re making plans, shouldn’t we start with Plan A?” Marcus asked.
“Keep up, Bro. Plan A was for her to go home a happy camper,” Luca said.
“And Plan B is?” Marcus asked warily.
“The Bad Boyfriend Project,” Lorenzo said with a smile.
“What?” Marcus snapped.
“AKA Make Frankie Go Home Unhappily,” Antonio explained.
“Again. What?”
“We’re not talking in a way that leads to crushed balls followed by a slow, painful death, but instead in a low-key get-her-out-of-town way,” Luca said brightly, raising his coffee cup as if in a toast.
Marcus grunted. This whole thing was a cluster fuck, and it was his fault. “As long as your plan doesn’t leave me ball-less, I’m all ears. I’m guessing you assholes already have a sabotage strategy half-baked and waiting for my signature before you head back to Manhattan after breakfast.” When he’d sent out word that construction work for the day was cancelled, he’d explained bigwigs from the company he worked for had come to town to assess the manor’s potential as a retreat location. This to explain Giovanni’s BMW in the driveway and the four strange men in town.
“Started to, but then Luca’s latest scandal took over,” Antonio said. “But that’s a topic for another day.”
Marcus glanced at Luca, who had the grace to look sheepish, but said nothing. At best, the five of them had a couple of hours to devise a plan. There’d be opportunity later to find out what the hell his brother had done this time.
Giovanni dished up plates of bacon and eggs and set them in front of each of his brothers before taking a seat at the opposite end of the table. “Eat while youbrainstorm make-Frankie-hate-Marcus ideas, or the eggs will get cold.”
Luca grabbed a slice of bacon and leaned forward, holding it like a lecture stick. “This all started over shoes. Seems fitting if you ask her out on a date and then take a swipe at her footwear.”
“Wait. This scheme involves our dating?” Marcus asked.
