“You will not”—my husband points a warning finger at my face—“under any circumstances, leave this house until the last one of those lunatics is, at least, ten miles away.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Not greeting them would be extremely rude.”
“Are you aware that the nine men currently infesting our library are responsible for enough dead bodies that the headcount could easily rival the population of a small country?” Adriano wraps his arms around me, his palms spreading across and stroking my belly. “I don’t want my wife—my pregnant wife—anywhere near them.”
“Sounds like a marvelous group of law-abiding citizens,” Mom chirps from her favorite recliner in front of her big-screen TV.
I sigh.
Last month, Adriano had the guest house on our property renovated into a beautiful home for my mother, because he decided that Mom’s apartment building (which he bought months ago!) should be put to better use.A parking lot, was one of his mentioned options. I was so mad at him… Until I found a report in his desk drawer that noted the building had failed several safety codes. Under that report was a proforma invoice for the extensive repairs and facelift on the entire complex. Butof course, my husband would rather drop dead than confess to doing somethingnicefor other people.
Adriano focuses his glare on my mother. “Indeed, Mrs. Fabbri.”
“And, once you join them, that body count statistic will change from a small to a medium-sized country, dear Adriano.”
“Your high opinion of me never ceases to amaze,” he deadpans. “Will you please make sure Iris doesn’t leave this place until I come to collect her?”
“Sure. If you can’t keep your wife safe in your own home, I’m happy to help.”
A full-on growl rips from my husband’s throat, and I slam my hand over my mouth, trying not to laugh.
Adriano might very well regret my mom’s new place of residence, and probably already has a thousand times or more. She enjoys needling him far too much.
“Oh, come on.” I wrap my arms around his, pulling him toward the door. “These are your friends—”
“They are not my friends!”
“Business associates, then. But this is the first time you’ve invited all of them over. It would be terribly rude if you didn’t introduce me to them. Especially after I spent all that time making tiramisu for your meeting.”
Adriano goes stone-still. “You told me you ordered it.”
Oh. I grin sheepishly. “Oops.”
“You’re seven months pregnant, Iris. It’s absolutely unacceptable that you work for hours to make dessert for a bunch of criminals.”
“I’m pregnant, not impaired.” I lift onto my toes and press my lips to his. “I made it for you, because I know how much you love it. But you’ll need to share.”
“I’m not sharing anything that you made for me. They can have the store-bought cookies,” he mumbles into my mouth, then nips my lower lip.
“I made five large baking pans, Adriano.”
“They are all mine.”
I smile. My husband is weirdly attached to all the food I make. He won’t let anyone touch it, other than him. I’m not exactly sure how things will go down if I do end up opening my pastry shop next year, as he and I talked about.
“Okay, honey,” I bite him back. “Let’s go say hello.”
***
While Adriano was on his renovation kick, he had the east wing of our house redone. The suite of rooms that used to belong to me, as well as the bedroom next door, were turned into an enormous library, big enough to fit at least thirty people without them feeling cramped. But, with these particular nine men plus my husband, the space feels like a matchbox.
We barely set a foot inside before Adriano stops and wraps his arms around me. Looks like we won’t be going further than the doorway.
“The Bratva.” My husband indicates the group of four men around the poker table.
My eyes flit from one grim-looking face to another as Adriano recites their names.
Pakhan Roman Petrov.
