Fina left a few seconds after Angelo frog-marched her date away. Kane’s at my shoulder. He reminds me of Michelangelo’s David—pretty to look at, but zero conversation.
I grumble to myself and head toward the exit at the back of the room. Kane trails behind me, glancing left and right, alert for threats. If I were less drunk, I’d scoff and rile him up for acting like a dick, but my drunk brain is more interested in jumping him in a dark corner.
It’s becoming a problem.
Just as we reach the exit, a tall woman with sleek pin-curled hair and a lithe figure hustles past on sky-high heels.
“Fuck,” Kane mutters and yanks me behind an antique vase that’s taller than me.
“What’s going on?” My head is cloudy, but I can’t see any obvious security threats heading our way. No armed assailantsor ninjas in black masks. So why has Kane gone into protection mode?
“Paris Remington. She must have spotted Angelo.”
My hackles rise. “Is she one of his fuck-toys?” I’m inwardly seething.
“Sort of,” Kane hedges while peering over my shoulder. Luckily for him, he’s at least ten feet tall and has a much better field of view than me. He also smells good.
Like, really good.
Pepper and mint with a hint of citrus. It’s delicious, so I lean closer and sniff like a loon. Kane freezes.
“Are you seriously sniffing me?” The amusement in his voice is unmistakable. If I weren’t so drunk on expensive champagne, I’d blush. But drunk Chiara is shameless.
“Would you rather I kneed you in the balls again?”
He chuckles. “No. I’d like kids one day, thanks.” A sudden image of this gruff mafia enforcer on his knees with two kids jumping all over him knocks me sideways.
I need to give my head a wobble. Picturing Kane in dad-mode is a serious mistake. I can’t afford to let my guard down around the man who drugged me in a dive-bar parking lot. He’s not a good guy. Far from it.
Feminine shrieks filter our way. It sounds like Paris, whoever she is, has some serious issues with Angelo. Since I’m drunk, I decide I can’t be a bystander to this car crash any longer.
“Move, Daddy,” I bark, shoving Kane into the vase. His eyes widen as the vase sways precariously, giving me just enough time to shoot past him. A curse follows me through the exit as I stumble into my husband’s arms.
Angelo catches me without breaking a sweat. I contemplate punching him for being an asshole before remembering the reason I flew over here.
“Hi, you must be Paris?” The enraged blonde with pancake tits falters when I throw her a beaming smile.
She stares at me, blank faced, before a bored sneer appears. “Oh. Are you the paid fuck for the evening?” Her casual dismissal of me lights my fire. How dare the bitch call me a whore!
“No. I have standards,” I smirk. “But I am his wife.”
Paris’s jaw drops. “You?”
“Enough!” Angelo is done with this conversation, but Paris is a woman on a mission. I’m not sure what her problem is, but at a guess, Angelo did the dirty on her.
“So, were you married when you fucked me and then Michelle?” The hurt in her voice slices through my amusement. What a bastard. Fucking men. I hate them all.
“Does it matter?”Wow.
I spin around. “Actually, it matters to me. Have you fuckingcheated on me?” I raise my voice, aiming for at least a hundred decibels. Several people passing stop and turn, rubber-necking our domestic drama with gleeful interest. “You bastard!” I’m determined to milk this for all it’s worth. If I cause enough drama, Angelo will think twice about taking me to any more bullshit events.
“Cheated? He more than cheated! He cheated on me with my best fucking friend!” Paris bursts into tears. It’s hard not to feel sorry for her.
“He’s a bastard,” I sympathize before inquiring, “Do I need to get a full STI panel?”
Paris sobs harder while Angelo curses behind me. Kane appears, having saved the priceless vase from disaster, and my husband practically throws me at him.
“Take her home while I sort this out.”
