“Eli’s taken long enough.”
“Have I?”
I sigh. Say what you will about Morelli, the prick knows how to make an entrance. He glares down at us from the top of the stairs in his tight white shirt and charcoal three-piece suit. His gaze finds January. “Miss Whitehall, you’re awake.”
January still looks terrified, but her eyes are feverishly bright as she takes in Morelli’s stupid mug. He smiles at her, and she looks like she’s going to swoon. I roll my eyes. Morelli has this effect on women. He’s pretty as a picture and the extra years in Naples gave him an accent that makes American pussy cream itself. I have to keep him away from the clubs on busy nights or the girls get distracted, and the bottom line goes way down.
Morelli comes down the stairs just slow enough to piss me off, adjusting his sleeves so his platinum cuff links glint like morse code in the fire light. January can’t tear her eyes off him, which is exactly what Eli wants. He reaches the landing and gives her one of his ‘come suck my cock’ smiles. “Miss Whitehall, my name is Elliot Velluto Morelli. It’s a pleasure to have you in my house.”
Her lip twitches. I bet some inborn politeness is trying to make her say‘thank you for kidnapping me at my wedding.’
Morelli stares coldly at her. “I’m speaking to you.”
“H-Hello, Mr. Morelli.”
“Better. You’ve obviously already met my associates.” He waves a hand toward Adri. “This is Adriano Rossi.”
Again, silence, but now the girl is visibly shaking. Morelli snaps his fingers. “Greet Adriano, Miss Whitehall.”
“Hello, Adriano.”
“Good girl.” Morelli turns to me. “This is Domenico Valente—”
“Doc,” I snarl. “You’re not my fucking mother.”
“Domenico Valente who we call Doc,” Morelli finishes irritably. “He played the part of your priest today.”
January’s green eyes fill with tears, probably remembering her pathetic confessions—staying up too late on school nights, being jealous of her friends for going to the movies. I wave at her. She says nothing.
Morelli sighs. “Miss Whitehall, I was told you were polite. Do I need to teach you manners?”
She looks at Basher in a wordless plea for help.
“Do not look at him,” Morelli says in a silky voice. “Look at Domenico and greet him.”
January addresses my chin. “Hello, Domenico.”
I grin. “I’ve changed my mind. She can call me that all day.”
Morelli puts a hand on Basher’s shoulder. “And this is—”
“Bobby,” Basher interjects. “Just Bobby.”
Morelli pauses. Usually when people interrupt him, he has Adri break their fingers, but he loves Basher, treats him like a baby brother. He gives him a small nod. “Fine. Miss Whitehall, this is Bobby. Sometimes we call him Basher.”
January tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Good evening, Bobby.”
Basher goes bright red. He thinks an anglicized name makes him her type. He’s deluded. She doesn’t have a type. She’s a pretty little girl who doesn’t know her asshole from her elbow. The irony is, the only one with an Anglo name is Morelli. His dad called him ‘Elliot’ after a business partner. Word is, when the epidural wore off and Morelli’s mom saw the birth certificate, she went for his eyes.
A current is passing between January and Basher. She’s still screaming at him to rescue her. Makes sense. She’s spent the most time with him and now that we’re all together, she trusts him the most. It’s high time someone took a shit on that.
I whistle. “Hey, Whitehall. Did you know we call Bobby ‘Basher’ because his real name’s Roberto Bassilotta?”
January’s eyebrows pull together.
“Also, his parents farmed pigs in Ohio and his Nonno fought for Mussolini.”
Adriano lets out a snort of laughter. Basher looks like I stomped on his puppy. I shoot him a wink. “Sorry, Bash, but you need to have more pride in your heritage.”
