“So, he regretted it?”
“I’m not sure regret is the word I’d use. He took a drug we’d never seen before and it triggered a heart attack. If he’d wanted to die, he wouldn’t have called it in. Plus, he used a nitroglycerin spray, which would have helped his heart limp along until the EMTs showed up.”
“He’s a scientist. Did you know that?”
From all his chem talk, I figured that made sense.
Still…
“How would I? You’re the only Valentini I’ve spoken more than a handful of words to and I know what you tell me.”
Which, in fairness, was more than they’d appreciate.
They treated him like a confessor, each of them coming to him with their myriad woes, and he had a habit of talking to me about them.
I still wasn’t sure how I’d gained his trust, but I was glad I had—even if it might get me killed were the Valentinis to learn how many of their secrets he’d shared.
“Custanzu trained while the family plotted to overtake the Italians.” The pride in his voice took me aback. Typically, it remained neutral when he spoke of his kin. “He has… What do you call it? A PoD?”
“A PhD?”
“Se. That. Very clever boy. Not even his siblings know this. He told me because I don’t talk.” His gaze shuffled off me. “He’s a big man, no?”
That triggered a chuckle. “Are you trying to set me up with your grieving nephew, Currau?”
He shrugged. “I’m telling you that he’s very smart. Not a dingbat like your usual morons.”
“I date finance bros.”
His disgust was clear. “Legal mafia.”
Not wrong.
“I’d definitely be his placeholder if he’s talking to you about a lost love!”
“How would you? She’s in a coffin.” His hands surged in a purely Italian gesture before they dropped to the bed. “And didn’t you hear me? He’s getting over her?—”
“And feeling guilty about it!” I tutted. “Leave the poor boy alone.”
That the poor boy had to weigh two hundred pounds despitelooking like death the last time I’d seen him was neither here nor there.
That the poor boy was also delicious—a fact I’d accepted at the same time as I’d noticed his open fly—had nothing to do withanything.
“Regardless, he’s Sicilian. I’m Irish?—”
“Your arguments would be…” He smacked his fingers to his lips.
I gaped at him. “YOU ARE. Oh, my god. You’re trying to set me up with your grieving, potentially suicidal, definitely nuts nephew!”
“You’re the one who’s forever complaining about the fools you date. Why do you talk to me about this if you don’t want advice?”
“Because my brothers would go out and kill the guys and I don’t need it to look like there’s a serial killer on the loose. I date a lot.”
“Exactly.”
“I’ll tell you what…” He gave me his full attention. “You talk to him about a blind date… and I’ll go on it with him. How about that?”
He harrumphed. “You drive a hard bargain, Catriona.”
