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This time, Angela didn’t even need to think about it. “Of course we are. Roman is mine.”
Morrigan nodded once, her eyes firmly on the traffic once more. “Good to hear.”
Angela studied the other woman’s profile for a moment. “You were really worried, huh?”
“I wasn’t,” Morrigan quickly denied.
Angela’s lips twitched again. “You really were. Aww, you do care,” she teased. Morrigan shot her a filthy look, making her laugh out loud. “I’ve got your number—all of you. You’re just a bunch of softies.”
“We aren’t,” Morrigan refuted more seriously this time. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking we’re marshmallows. But... yes. I do care. I care about Roman. I owe him a lot. And I care about you. I guess. Kind of.”
“Wow. I feel all warm and fuzzy from the love,” Angela said dryly.
Morrigan rolled her eyes. “Shut up. You’re annoying. You know that?”
Angela snickered, feeling better by the second. Her conversation with Morrigan was just as cathartic as the wise words from Sister Pip. Yes, there was a lot to deal with. And yes, she was still terrified and sick with the implications of knowing the Foreman was around. But with her new family by her side, she was positive she’d make it.
CHAPTER THREE
She’s cool.
Roman gripped his phone, reading the two words from Morrigan over and over. What the fuck did that mean? Did it mean Angel was cool and had forgiven him for his sins? Or was she cool because she wasn’t having a complete mental breakdown? Sometimes he wished his reticent cousin would be a little wordier. But at least he knew Angela was safe. It had been difficult to let her out of his sight. But it was also difficult to look at her as well. A fact that hurt. Bad.
“The Foreman. The fucking Foreman!” Roman yelled. He threw punch after punch at the boxing bag in the family’s personal gym on the private level. He didn’t want company. Unless it was the man responsible for hurting Angela.
That’s you, you asshole, his mind helpfully supplied. The skin on his knuckles gave way, and he watched with satisfaction as the patch of blood on the bag expanded with every punch he threw. He didn’t care. He relished the pain, as well as the sight of the vital fluid. Especially because it was his own. His current self-hate was immense.
The man he knew as Godfrey was an associate of his father’s family. Roman had no issue taking business from the Romano family. In fact, it was something he’d set out to do. They cared about money and power, so he had made it his mission to strip them of both things every chance he got. Which was why when associates came to him instead of his old family, he rarely said no. Within reason, of course. He had lines he didn’t cross, and clients were always vetted. But Godfrey was a very old acquaintance and had been around off and on when Roman was a child and into his teenage years. A thorough background check had clearly fallen through the cracks. Or, he just hadn’t cared enough all those years ago to be thorough.
Roman railed against the punching bag until its tether broke, slamming to the floor with a bang. He roared at it, kicking it repeatedly. Blood and sweat flew, but his temper didn’t cool. He wanted pain. He wanted to hurt more on the outside than he did on the inside. Because that was easier. It was also an old habit.
“Want to do that against something that can hit back?”
Roman’s shoulders tensed but he didn’t turn around. He was breathing heavily, sweat running down his face and hitting the tattoo on his bare chest. He had long ago stripped his shirt off and was in a pair of gray sweats and nothing else. Not even shoes.
He fisted his hands, watching blood drip onto the mats. His amazing cleaners, a number of illegal immigrants he housed at Omertà, would be pissed at him and scold him in a series of different languages. They hated washing blood off things, even though they were good at it. They had banded together to get into the States and formed a family of their own, having been taken under the wing of Salvatore’s mother, Teresa. Some of them cleaned, while others cooked, or took on administrative duties. And Teresa saw to it they received a formal education. She was a teacher, and a damned good one. Many of them had superb fake papers, thanks to Luca, but they chose to stay on. Roman was happy for them to do so. They were loyal.
Roman shook out his fists, sending his blood flying, and finally turned around, finding Abel—who had spoken—and Salvatore.
“Camila is going to be pissed,” Sal noted, gesturing at the red spatters.
Roman shrugged, remaining silent. He was watching Abel, who was already shaking his arms out and loosening up his shoulders. Sal sighed and kicked off his shoes before peeling off his shirt. Abel followed, exposing his inked skin. Abel’s tattoos covered his whole back and chest, and most of his arms. Salvatore was the only one of them who still had virgin skin.
Roman kept his eyes on the two men as they began to circle him slowly. He was a skilled fighter, but Abel and Salvatore gave him a run for his money. For one, they had far more muscled bulk than he did. Abel was the biggest when it came to height and build, and though Roman was taller than Salvatore, his friend beat him when it came to muscle. Roman was leaner, but his brown skin stretched tautly over his hard frame, and his washboard abs were nothing to sneeze at. He had speed and power, and just then, he also had anger. He wouldn’t go down easy, even when it was two against one. And they all knew it.
Salvatore had far more formal training than both Abel and Roman due to being in the military and seeing real combat. And Abel was a hell of a good street fighter. Roman watched them carefully, knowing which of them would crack first. He could be patient, as could Sal. In fact, Salvatore had more patience than all of them combined. But patience wasn’t one of Abel’s strengths and, predictably, he was the first to make a move.
He grinned and charged, much like a bull. Roman dodged him easily enough because the man was projecting like hell. What he failed to dodge, though, was Salvatore’s fist, which appeared out of nowhere and landed heavily against his left ear.
“Motherfucker!” Roman yelled.
Salvatore danced around him, agile as a boxer. “What’s the matter? Getting old? Or maybe just getting soft?”
Roman gritted his teeth, giving his head a hard shake. His ear was stinging like hell. He jabbed Sal in the face, which the other man easily blocked, but the swift uppercut he followed up with hit home, right in Sal’s solar plexus. When Sal doubled over to wretch—because he hadn’t pulled the punch—Roman turned to Abel, who was watching the show with a smirk. His blood was pumping now, and he wanted more. So he gestured for Abel to come and get some.
Abel moved forward quickly, feinting with his right fist before slugging Roman in the face with his left. Roman spun with the hit, minimizing the damage, which was just as well. Otherwise, he could have been facing a dislocated jaw. Abel wasn’t pulling his punches either.
“You like that?” Abel taunted. He brought his fists up, kissing his knuckles. “I got more where that came from.”
