She looked at the unfamiliar bed she slept in. The other side was still untouched.
She looked at the man on the floor muttering in Italian, sporting a black eye.
“I never knew you had a good right hook.”
Autumn didn’t respond when she looked at him. He wore his usual suit and tie. Did he even go to bed?
Scala looked at his phone. “We need to get going.”
“What?” Her voice was gravelly from sleep. She shook her head to get rid of the cobwebs in her brain. “Go where?”
Scala stood and dusted off his knees. He looked at her, then over her shoulder. Did he see…? His lips thinned. “Casale and Moretti. One of Moretti’s men attacked Casale’s. You have to put out the fire and tell them what you know.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Sure you can.” Scala threw some clothes on the bed, “Get dressed.”
“Scala.”
He half turned, his eyes going over her sheet-covered body.
Autumn held onto the sheet until her knuckles turned white. “We have to talk about—”
Scala turned back around and walked out the door. “We don’t have time. Get dressed.”
“Tell me again the reason behind this meeting?” They were getting out of Scala’s Maserati on the opposite side of the road from the restaurant, The Three Brothers. Patiently, he had waited for her to dress, and when she emerged from the bedroom, a mug of coffee was waiting for her.
Nico Scala was a conundrum. He was arrogant, offensive, protective, charming, and aggressive, all mixed into one. Undoubtedly, he had seen the old scars on her back and the new stripes from when Hererra went to Cat Tails with her. She’d seen it in the narrowed-eyed look when he apprised her body.
“Anastasia’s brother went after one of Casale’s enforcers with a knife,” he muttered, interrupting her thoughts. “The kid nearly killed him.”
“Why would her brother do that? They obviously know the murderer isn’t one of them.”
Scala held her arm before they crossed the street. “Casale’s man said something or other to Luca, Ana’s brother. My uncle’s exact words: ‘He called her a dirty bitch who liked to hang around with scumbags.’”
Autumn rolled her eyes. “Why is it that men like to act like little boys?”
Scala shrugged. “It’s a syndicate thing. They harass each other, sometimes killing or almost killing someone. Alliances have to be made to make amends.” He grimaced, then crossed the street. “The usual.”
“Maybe for you,” she muttered. “I’ll never remember all the rules these men like to play by.”
“Don’t try.”
Two burly men met them at the door of Cyrus Moretti’s restaurant. Someone ushered them inside, and right away, Autumn and Scala heard yelling from the kitchen. Running to the back and through the swinging door, Autumn watched as Casale had a taller man with short, blond hair, by the lapels of his leather jacket.
“Zio! Smettila!” Scala snapped, pulling his uncle off the taller man. “Stop it right now!”
Casale pulled at the cufflinks on his shirt, glared one last time at the other man, and then exchanged more rapid Italian. A dozen men filled the medium-sized industrial kitchen. They listened to the conversation while others looked Autumn over as if she were a piece of meat.
Scala acted as referee, and Casale sneered and stepped away. The blonde straightened his jacket and leaned against the wall as if it were holding him up. There were scars on his face and an old, jagged wound beneath his lower lip.
Autumn realized the blonde was the boxer, Cyrus “The Bulldog” Moretti. The man was famous for his uppercuts and continuous hits to the face. He never allowed his opponent to block his punches. He had almost killed a couple of them. Perhaps that was why they banned him from the boxing community. Autumn recognized the man from Braeden’s shoebox of boxing programs from the eighties.
“What the hell happened to you?” Casale squinted at his nephew. “You decide it was a good time to take up pugilism?”
“Long story,” he glanced at Autumn.
Autumn caught his eye, then looked away from the black eye she gave him. It wasn’t as bad as Casale made it out to be, but it was clear someone punched him in the face.
