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She hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. They won’t try again so soon.” She shifted away from him, heading toward the door. “Let me get some of the boys on things here. I swear, we’ll move quickly.”
“Vespa,” he called softly after her.
She stopped, looking over her shoulder at him. “Yeah?”
“What was his last name? Cesare?”
Her lips twisted. “I’m surprised you don’t already know. It’s your thing, isn’t it? Information?” She turned fully, her arms crossed over her chest, still streaked with partly washed-off blood.
He hesitated, then nodded, his expression feeling brittle. He’d asked out loud because he’d wanted to be transparent. “You don’t want me to try to dig up more?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “As long as you share.”
“Of course.” He hadn’t intended to keep anything he found out from her. “And it’s Cesare Moretti?” he asked. That was the name he’d already tracked down, though he hadn’t gotten much more. Not because he hadn’t asked for more but because the Coronellas were tighter-lipped than other families, than even the Di Salvos.
Vespa’s mouth thinned. “That’s him,” she murmured, then turned toward the door again.
Antonio made his way outside and found Enzo waiting near their car. His uncle lifted an eyebrow, eavesdropping as Antonio placed a few calls, traded in a few different favors, hoping for deeper answers. It didn’t take long to initiate.
Just long enough for Vespa to finish, quick like she had promised. She jogged toward them as if she hadn’t been in a car crash that day. The cut on her forehead glistened with some sort of salve to help it heal.
Antonio opened the door for her as Enzo rounded the car to the driver’s side. His uncle nodded at him over the hood as Antonio closed her door.
“Your jacket is a little wet,” Enzo warned before climbing into the driver’s seat.
Antonio looked down. He’d gotten a little too close to Vespa when he’d kissed her. Blood streaked a dark wetness along his lapels and the bottom right edge of the jacket. He shrugged out of it, folding it carefully as he scanned the rest of himself. The stains had only been on the jacket, and he stashed it under his feet as he climbed in.
In the back seat, Vespa laid her head against the cushions, but her eyes didn’t close as Enzo drove them to join the others.
Vespa stood behind Montrell’s chair, too restless to sit and her stomach too twisted to eat. Besides, she hated eating around other people. She preferred to inhale her food alone, almost too fast to enjoy it, or so Giulia said.
Giulia had made carbonara again. It was Beatrice’s favorite, not Vespa’s. Montrell’s wife deserved to be doted on after all she’d been through, and for killing Montrell’s mother. Giulia must have appreciated that even more than Vespa did.
The jealousy she felt inside made Vespa feel like a child. She’d never been Giulia’s favorite anyway; that had been Montrell.
When they’d arrived, her friend had clamped onto her shoulders too tightly to be comfortable, but she’d understood. He’d been worried. He’d stared hard at the scratch on her forehead, but she’d tabled the conversation until later. She was good at not talking about what she didn’t want to face.
Nerves skimmed under her skin, making her want to scream.
The restaurant was a safe place. Their men were camped around the outside, and the glass was bulletproof. Plus, Giulia was there, and no one got anything over on Giulia.
Vespa listened absently to their breakdown of the meeting with Rossi. Nothing concrete, but he’d denied and made excuses about the identified men no longer being his. Meetings were such a waste of time.
Antonio sat at the table next to Giovanni, talking so much more than he had earlier with her, and grinning his insipid smile that said nothing touched him. He was pouring Montrell a glass of wine, and Montrell flushed while he shook his head.
Beatrice leaned closer, teasing Montrell in a less than discreet manner, and Vespa found the ability to quirk her lip up and egg her on. She told her friend one glass wouldn’t kill him, even though she knew he was the biggest lightweight around. If Montrell gave in and drank a little, she’d be able to delay the conversation she didn’t want to have even longer. Montrell frowned at her as he took the barest of sips.
The conversation flowed around her. Vespa felt no urge to join. She wanted to escape instead, now that she saw everyone was fine. She’d gotten Antonio back to Giovanni, the one he cared about most. He’d be good for a while.
She edged farther from the table, inch by inch, before slipping past Giulia and into the kitchen.
She’d forgotten the Di Salvo assassin was there with Alina. Vespa still felt guilty about encouraging Alina into almost getting herself killed. She never could keep her mouth shut when someone asked for the truth, and at one point, she had provided Alina with the location she needed to go off and be reckless.
Alina smiled at her, a small, genuine one that made Vespa fear that the woman might hug her again. “Vespa. How are you?”
Vespa gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Still kicking, despite attempts to the contrary. You’re looking better.” She nodded at her before edging toward the back door.
“Luka told me about the garage.” Alina turned her smile onto the tattooed assassin. “It sounded impressive.”
