THREE
KITTY
I jerked awake as someone sobbed, “STAN,” at one hundred and fifty decibels.
Ears ringing and eyes stinging from too-little sleep, I blinked double-time, failing to remember what had brought me to a private room I didn’t recognize. One where Currau’s endless reruns ofCSIdidn’t light up the space.
Dazed as hell, my brain struggled to account for the two kings and their queens who suddenly walked through the door like we were on a catwalk.
“Who’s she?”
“The reason we’re here at all, Rory,” one of the kings soothed the heavily pregnant woman.
I glanced at the patient, tried not to be impressed about how much space he took up on the bed despite looking like a scrawny heap of shit, then hid a yawn when a woman strode over to me on heels so high I inwardly applauded her.
Jennifer—wife of Luciu Valentini—was also Paddy O’Donnelly’s daughter.
Irish Mob royaltyandSicilian.
Hers was a face I easily recognized from church.
She crouched in front of me and, before my bewildered gaze, snagged a hold of my hand. “Thank you so much for telling us about him. We know it could have caused trouble for you.”
“I have spoken with your supervisor,” the Don rumbled, stepping over to his wife and helping her stand.
He was HOT. So hot. Honestly, I should be immune considering how many hotties I saw at mass on Sundays, because something in Hell’s Kitchen’s waters bred cuties, but Luciu Valentini was fiiine.
Exhausted, I sat there, dazedly gawping at him.
Jennifer snorted, drawing my attention away from him. “You think he’s gorgeous now? You should see him when he’s holding one of my babies.”
It was a joke. A gentle tease. But also a brand of ownership. A claiming.
Mybabies.
Italicized, underlined, and in bold.
He belonged to her.
“I’m so sorry.” Mortified, I stuttered, “I-I just finished a double shift and?—”
“If anyone understands, it’s me.” Jennifer winked. “Now, can you explain what’s happening?”
Relieved there’d be no hair-pulling or bitch-slapping over my awestruck ogling, I noticed the floor supervisor—Douchebag ‘more hands than an octopus’ David—glowering at me. Until he received a glare from Luciu Valentini. Then he ducked his head.
Wanting to correct my fuckup, I offered, “I’m sure David can explain?—”
“We don’t wantDavidto explain.”
God, the other king was handsome too! In a different way, but no less delicious, and yes, I’d also managed to piss off the woman standing beside him, who tightened her grip on his arm.
Nothing about that grip was playful, unlike Jennifer’s teasing warning to backoff.
In my defense, a whole lot of delicious man-meat took up space/oxygen in this hospital room and I was only one woman, functioning on barely any sleep, and with zero self-preservation skills.
My fatigued brain raced to provide identification—Hunter De Laurentiis.
CamorranDon of Las Vegas and LA.
