January sighs. “I wish you’d all forgive him for taking me to the hospital. I thought your friendship was bigger than that.”
“Hey, you don’t get to go putting that on me. He went out there on his own.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s a nutjob.”
“I don’t think Adriano’s a nutjob.” She rubs her St. Christopher, polishing the surface with her thumb. “Has he really strangled any women to death?”
I burst out laughing.
“Nico!”
“I’m sorry, you just make shit way too easy.”
“So you lied to me?”
The wounded look on her face makes me feel like an asshole. I reach across the center console and grab her hand. Touching her still feels like touching dry ice, but I force myself to keep going. “I’m sorry, Tits. After that gold star fuck, I should be worshiping your little body, not making you sad.”
Her mouth lifts. “Thank you.”
I hold her for a second longer and then pull away, resisting the urge to shake out my fingers like when you have a sprain. How? How is it so easy to fuck her in the ass and so hard to touch her gently?
January loops her St. Christopher chain over her neck and holds the tiny medallion in her hand. “I know you love him.”
“Huh?”
“Adriano. Even if you won’t admit it and you’re always rude to each other, I know you love each other. Eli and Bobby, too.”
I open my mouth to say something but decide not to bother. Let the girl have her ideas. A lively bluegrass song comes on the radio, and I turn it up again.
“Nap if you want to, Tits. I’ll wake you up when we get home.”
***
There’s a welcomingcommittee back at Velvet House. Bobby and Morelli, standing on the front steps glaring at us.
“Oh no,” January mumbles. “What do we do?”
“Test how strong our brotherly love is,” I tell her. “You make a break for it. I’ve got this.”
But she stays and gets out of the car when I do, her head bowed like the pretty little schoolgirl she is. Bobby takes her arm and checks her over like the mother henhe is. Morelli’s face is like thunder. “You took her to her Zia’s funeral.”
“I did.”
I could tell Morelli I fucked January in the asshole, too. But why make the guy’s head explode? Besides, telling him would be tacky. And nothing about what January and I did in that BMW was tacky.
“You.” Morelli rounds on January. “Upstairs. Now.”
This time she doesn’t protest, just nods meekly and skips away. I watch her go, glad what we did doesn’t seem to have hurt her. A half-smile curls my lips.
“Don’t you fucking smirk, youpezzo di merda.” Morelli points a finger in my face. “Did you ever, in your pestilent, rotting brain, consider I might have agreed to let you take her to the funeral if you’d discussed it with me?”
I rub my forehead, suddenly as tired as I was this morning. “Do you ever think that maybe it’s none of your business what I do?”
Morelli glares at me and I sense he’s not going to let up until I admit I was wrong.
“Fine, I fucked up. Send me to the gulag. Do whatever you want.”
