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Vespa’s hand beneath the sling trembled where it pressed into his dress shirt.
“Dammit!” Her lips firmed as she glared down at the dead soldier. “We need to follow up with more headshots to be sure. I can’t stand these bastards.”
Antonio’s lips tilted up. “But you like me,” he murmured, rewarded when her brown eyes flew back to his. “Admit it,” he teased.
Vespa’s lips parted, her eyes dilating as her hand twisted in his shirt. The warmed his chest, settling him.
“You just saved me from a bullet, Ves.” There were too many moving parts to this hit for him to berate himself over the necessity. Vespa was simply better than him.
Her lips spread in a smile as the creases near her eyes eased. “Shit, I did save you, didn’t I? Bet you feel pretty stupid now, trying to get me left behind.”
Her adrenaline was keeping it at bay, but Antonio knew Vespa was in pain. She hadn’t healed fully, but she’d come along for Montrell. Coronella depended on her loyalty, and Vespa would run herself into the ground for her friend.
“I told you I’d hold my own,” Vespa rambled, and he considered shutting her up with his lips. She released him, her gaze slipping down his body. “You, on the other hand…”
“I never doubted your skill,” Antonio said. He’d known she would shoot better than him, even with her nondominant hand. She shouldn’t have to, not when she was hurting, but it wasn’t his call. “Now, stop checking me out. It’s not the time for that.”
Vespa snorted, and the sound eased some of the tension in his spine.
Antonio glanced at the other couple before bending toward Vespa’s ear. There was no scent of oatmeal and honey from her shampoo. “Who’s been washing your hair?” He tucked a stray strand into her bun, already knowing the answer was no one.
Vespa’s gaze had hardened by the time he pulled away. “Stop that,” she breathed. “You’re distracting. I can’t afford it.”
The way she turned away was like a kick to the gut, but she wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t the time.
Antonio hovered on the outskirts when they entered the sitting room where Luka had already confirmed Santino Lucchese was hiding. The man looked jittery, but then again, he should. He was a fucked-up father and a horrible leader who had gotten all of his men killed, and over what? A need to control his daughter?
Antonio kept one eye out the door, watching their backs even as satisfaction ran through him. One more from the older generation would be gone after today. That meant only two remained, and he’d find a way to target Rossi and Barone. Giovanni and Nera’s future wouldn’t be secure until all the men who thought they were weak were no longer in power.
His gaze shifted back to Lucchese, and his pulse skittered.
Beatrice had a gun settled on her father, but he was lifting his own. He wasn’t aiming at her. He was aiming at Montrell.
The shots were deafening. Antonio’s mind wasn’t on Montrell or Beatrice or fucking Lucchese. Vespa was moving, flinging herself into the path of the bullet, and Antonio wasn’t surprised at all.
“Fuck, Vespa!” he cursed as he slammed her out of the way.
The three of them landed in a pile, and his arm blazed with pain, pissing him off.
More shots followed, and he hoped to God they came from Beatrice’s piece. Taking one bullet was painful enough. The way she shouted made him fairly certain, and the shooting stopped when her gun clicked twice, empty of ammunition.
Vespa shoved at him from the pile they’d made, her scowl in place, and Antonio groaned as she jostled his injured arm.
“I took a bullet for you,” he told her. The words didn’t make it feel any more real. The only person he should have put himself on the line for was Giovanni.
Vespa’s hand trembled as she shoved at him again.
“Stop pushing at me,” he mumbled, feeling sick.
“You’re an idiot!” Vespa’s voice snapped. “I had that!”
In Vespa’s version, she would have taken the bullet herself. Right to the damn chest. She wriggled out from beneath him, and Antonio groaned at the movement.
Vespa slid her gun to Beatrice. “Add a bullet to your father’s goddamn head while I stop this one’s whining.”
Antonio’s laughter surprised him, but it and the sudden movement from Montrell at the bottom of the pile took his breath away.
Vespa used both hands to rip his jacket sleeve. He wanted to tell her to stop; it had to hurt her to use both hands. She applied pressure to the hole in his arm.
