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She glared at her friend. “Am I being handled? I hate being handled.”
Montrell winced before shifting closer. His hand was a warm weight on her shoulder. In the days since their talk, he’d been touching her more, but it felt different than it had before. Not as fulfilling, somehow.
She glanced at Beatrice, but his wife looked calm and certain.
“You hate others worrying about you, Ves. It takes a little finesse for even your best friend to manage it.” Montrell’s warm, brown eyes packed a punch. “Let’s find out for certain if we’re right to be worried. You’ve felt the ants crawling, haven’t you?”
She shifted under his hold. “I have. Something’s off.”
“You’re more used to being the shield.” He sighed, his fingers closing in a rubbing squeeze. “We’re both more used to that.”
She closed her eyes, part of her still wanting to argue. “Fine,” she muttered instead. “I’ll head to the warehouse, and I’ll be very fucking obvious about it. If the restaurant gets shot up instead, I’m screaming, ‘I told you so,’ until I’m blue in the face, though.” She shrugged his touch off, glaring at first one of them, then the other. “And you’re both going to be alive to hear it.”
“Deal,” Montrell said, grinning at his wife. They’d won.
Vespa blew out a breath, more than nervous. “Now I’m hoping someone shoots at me. Your smug faces make me want to kill someone.” When Montrell laughed at her words, the empty space inside her didn’t refill.
The capos returned so they could wrap up some of the mechanics of the plan. Two of the crews were already at the warehouse, making it look like normal business. Two would also be stationed at the restaurant. That left minimal coverage around the estate, which worried Vespa, but not as much as the men they wanted with her on the drive.
“Fine, but I’ll be alone in Carla. To tempt them even more.” Her hand reached up to loosen the clasp of her sling, and she rolled her shoulder after she took it off. It’d been long enough. Even after tweaking it at the warehouse, the stretching pain wasn’t bad.
“Carla?” Beatrice asked, frowning.
“Vespa named her car,” Montrell murmured to her.
“Carla’s not just a car,” Vespa said, some of her bitterness buried under her outrage. “She’s a sleek tank who knows how to treat me right. I’ll look like a prime target to anyone watching, being all alone and vulnerable or some shit. Add some extra lure, one that will be difficult to pass up. Or not.” Her eyes slipped around the group. “Because I’m not the fucking target, and you’re all being ridiculous!” She shoved up from the table. “Let’s go prove it.”
She’d driven her own vehicle to the warehouse last time but had parked it in the garage at the estate when she returned. Carla deserved the special treatment. The Mercedes was extra heavy because of all the built-in protection.
Lately, Montrell had been letting their boys drive them around since Beatrice was usually with them. Carla was a two-seater coupe, with leather bucket seats. She wasn’t built for three.
Vespa let her car idle as she watched Montrell and Beatrice leave first. It still felt wrong. She should be with them. Giving in had made Montrell and his wife happy, but not Vespa. She would only ever put her own happiness aside for him.
She was going to be so fucking pissed if something happened to them at the damn restaurant. She’d follow them into death in her own homicidal blaze, if it came to it.
Carla’s engine rumbled in agreement.
The crew set to follow Vespa were ranged in two other cars, one before and one behind hers, penning her in instead of allowing her to enjoy letting Carla out a little. They really were so fucking obvious. She sighed, letting her hands roam over the steering wheel.
Shock nearly froze her when she watched a car shoot out of the alley and plow into the car following close behind her. Her eyes stayed glued to the rearview mirror for another heartbeat or two.
She hit the brakes, but the Coronella boys were taking care of whoever was inside the attacking car. They would be fine.
Another car skidded as it came alongside where she and Carla sat dead in the water. The attackers found out for themselves that Carla had been fitted with bulletproof glass. Her driver’s-side window blurred out whoever the hell they were as it fractured but didn’t break.
Vespa stomped on the gas. Fuck yeah. Carla would get to have a little fun after all.
“Call Antonio,” she barked to the car’s hands-free device. She needed both hands for the wheel.
“Pardon?” the mechanical-sounding British voice asked back.
“For fuck’s sake!” Vespa shouted as she slid into a sudden turn, giving herself a moment to breathe. Carla might look sleek, but it took skill to slide around corners in a tank.
“Pardon?” the voice asked again.
“Call ‘That Asshole Di Salvo,’” Vespa growled. She really should change how she had him listed in her phone, if she remembered, but warmth filled her over the skittering nerves as the first ring sounded through the speakers.
Antonio had been half expecting and half dreading the incoming call. He glared down at her number, irritated that it was the first time she was calling him.
