Page 72 of A Dangerous Kind of Love

“Yes, Boss.”

I end the call without another word.

“Bad night, sweetheart?” the bartender asks reaching out to brush my hand.

I let out an irritated sigh and look up.

“You are delicious,” she says, smiling.

“I’m not sure my girlfriend would appreciate this little interaction,” I say, cold, picking up my glass and taking another sip.

“She doesn’t have to know.”

Her fingers slide over mine, and I grab her wrist, jerking her forward. Her eyes widen instantly.

“Not interested. Now leave me the fuck alone.”

I release her with enough force that she stumbles back a step before I turn toward the crowd again. Don’t mess with Michael motherfucking Amato.

Chapter 28

Katie

“God,” Sarah mutters, slumping against the bar. “Why is it so busy on a damn Monday night?”

“Fucking baseball,” I say, flicking my fingers toward the TVs.

She groans and drops her head onto the counter. “I need a nap. Right now. I’m not built for this.”

I nudge her. “You’re not sleeping tonight.”

She lifts her head. “Oh, I’m definitely not.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“I’m taking Luca home,” she says, completely serious, “and letting him fuck the shit out of me.”

I laugh, shaking my head.

“No, listen,” she says, pointing at me. “You need to stop overthinking this and let Michael have his way. Come over to the slutty side.”

I laugh loud enough that people actually look over this time.

“Can you blame me?” she says. “Have you ever actually looked into Luca’s eyes? Or the fact that he’s like a foot taller than me. I mean, I know he’s not as tall as your stalker boyfriend.”

I shove her. “Shut up.”

She laughs.

“Seriously, though,” I say, turning slightly toward her. “Do you think Luca’s answer about why he calls Michael boss was enough? Seems so weird.”

She shrugs, lifting her head from the bar. “I mean, if you’re calling someone that all day, it’d probably be hard to switch it off, right?”

“I guess,” I say, not fully convinced. “But they’re like family-family. Not distant cousins.”

“Yeah, but Luca’s only twenty-seven,” she says. “Michael’s thirty-six. That changes things. They probably didn’t grow up the same way.”

I shrug. “Maybe.”