Page 128 of Coveted By Cupid

Say what now?

Romy’s pale skin flushes bright pink, realizing she misspoke. “I mean Flavor Bean! It’s called Flavor Bean, not, um, the other thing.”

Intrusive thoughts said out loud are the best. It takes everything in me not to laugh out loud.

Crypt nods his stoic head. “Yeah, Flavor Bean makes more sense. Flicking your bean would be more of a third-date kind of activity.”

Good Gods!

“Alright,” I say in a high voice, heading for the door and unwilling to save Crypt from his latest blunder. “I’m going to leave you two alone. Have fun. Make good choices. Use protection and all that stuff. Send me a text when the fuckers have turned to ash.”

I’m barely out the front door before I burst into laughter.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CUPID

The last three days, I stuck to Vanessa’s side, unwilling to leave her. I was an insufferable asshole in the days following Funeral Gate, insisting on escorting my ole lady to all her classes and clinical hours even when my protection was overkill. The traffickers are gone and no longer a threat to my woman.

Although being away from her causes me anxiety, today it’s necessary.

It’s Friday afternoon and we’re delivering the largest order of firearms our club has ever dealt with, handing the goods over to Piero Bianchi—the Don of Denver. Oaks and I are escorted into the Bianchi estate by Piero’s guards. We eyeball the luxurious surroundings with awe.

There’s rich, and then there’s filthy rich. Piero is the latter.

“Damn. I should have been a mobster,” Oaks says, his head swiveling to take in all the grandeur of the mansion.

“Mobsters don’t ride,” I remind him. “And they wear suits all the damn time. Talk about stuffy.”

One of the suit-wearing guards escorting us turns his nose up at me.

“No offense,” I say, trying to smooth over my insult. “Y’all look great.”

“Maybe they’d make an exception for me?” Oaks says with an amused expression. “I can be their gun-toting, hog-riding, leather-wearing mobster.”

“Not our style,” says the other escort with a thick Italian accent.

Oaks shakes his head. “Well, that’s a damn shame. If you change your mind, your boss has got my number.”

The guards lead us out onto a patio near the back of the estate. I hear the distinct sound of a Harley in the distance, approaching the property.

Oaks hears it, too. His eyes and smile widens. “Hey, maybe they do have biker mobsters.”

“No biker mobsters. Just a biker brother,” a smooth voice says behind us.

We turn and find a tall, lean man with model-worthy, tousled black hair and wearing a suit that probably costs more than my hog.

The gentleman sticks out his hand, introducing himself. “Piero Bianchi.”

I shake his hand. “Cupid. This is my VP—Oaks.”

“Howdy,” Oaks says with a wave.

“Nice to meet you. Welcome,” the don says, his accent rich. He gestures to a patio table and chairs. “Please sit.”

Taking a seat, a group of house staff approach the table, setting out wine and one of those fancy wood boards with a shit ton of cheese, cured meats, olives, and more—I think Vanessa calls it a charcuterie board.

Oaks face lights up brighter than the sun. He loves food almost as much as he loves Marlene. “Now this is how we should do business, Prez. We need more of these fancy buyers who know how to treat their business partners.”