His Mafia Prince
Chapter 263: More Secrets

Chapter 263: More Secrets

(TYLER)

I hear a cry behind me and wheel around to see my husband with his eyes on fire, his teeth bared, holding a black-clad figure by the throat up against one of the columns.

Shit. I know that look.

"Sasha!" He’s already shoved me behind him, but I grab the flexing bicep on his arm, trying to calm him. "Sasha," I hiss again. "It’s her. La Contessa, for fuck’s sake!"

The lady’s hood falls off her head and Sasha lets her go at once. The security guards at the checkpoints between the columns have noticed now, calling over, asking what’s going on as she bends over, gasping.

"We’re fine!" I yell at the security guards. "Just—messing around!" Sasha’s muscles are still tensed, quivering.

La Contessa raises her head to glare at him. "What is wrong with you?"

"Wrong with me?" He lets out a dangerous chuckle, and then he turns on me, his voice low and dark. "I told you to stay where you were!"

"I did!" The incredulous look he gives me—and the bald fact that I’m not currently waiting where he told me to—makes me rethink my answer. "I mean, I kind of did. But you disappeared, and then La Contessa came up all mysterious and hooded and told me to start walking, and I couldn’t see you, so I made for the colonnades. Like you told me to," I add, with a pointed stare.

"I knew this was a terrible idea," La Contessa mutters.

Sasha turns to her again, but I grab his wrist. Hard. "You are calling attention to us, husband," I point out.

"I don’t have time for this," La Contessa coughs, pulling up her hood again to hide her face. "I shouldn’t be talking to you at all. What do you want?"

Sasha is rapidly regaining his composure, thank God, although he’s gone from fire to ice now. "Why are you creeping around in a hoodie?

"I could hardly meet two criminals in my habit," La Contessa tells Sasha, just as frostily. She’s wearing an oversized hoodie with dark blue leggings and navy tennis shoes. She looks pretty damn inconspicuous. I’m kind of proud of her for being so smart. La Contessa looks down, her cheeks coloring. "I took some clothes with me in my backpack to put on over my habit.

She hesitates a bit then continues. "I have to be quick. And I certainly don’t have any desire to be assaulted by some mobster." She gives Sasha a cold look, and he gives her an even icier one right back.

Great start.

"Okay," I say. "We’re staying just here." I point at our hotel through the columns, across the road. We really did get a great position. "You wanna come over and talk?"

"No. What do you want?" she asks again.

Sasha and I exchange a glance. "We really do need to talk," I say. "Come to our hotel, please. Let us buy you lunch."

"I cant, I have other things to do, I’ll run late—"

"Please," I say, and reach out to take her hand. She presses her lips together and glares at me, but after a second, she gives an abrupt nod.

"I don’t have much time," she reiterates as we cross the road. "It won’t take long," I promise.

I can only hope I’m telling the truth.

She doesn’t even look around our room when we take her up, although she does accept our offer of lunch and manages to pick the most expensive things on the room service menu. She seems resigned to hearing us out, at least.

Sasha is sitting in a dark corner in a leather armchair, well back from the two of us, and he looks every inch the Mob Boss everyone thinks he is.

Well, and that he actually is, I guess. Sasha is such a teddy bear underneath, I forget how scary other people find him.

La Contessa doesn’t seem to find him scary, though; more contemptible.

We’re interrupted, thank God, by room service. They set up the meal quickly and then leave, and all the while Sasha still skulks in the corner armchair like some dark demon.

"Come on," I tell him, beckoning with my head. "Or I’ll put together a plate for you myself, and I know how much you hate that."

Any reminder of his recuperation period generally gets a response, and it does now, too. He’s over at the table in seconds, and he and La Contessa resume their Cold War of glares.

"Okay," I sigh, as I shake out my napkin. "Sasha, how about you apologize?"

"For?"

"Assaulting me?" she snaps.

"I’m not going to apologize for protecting my husband," he snaps back. I kick him under the table. After a moment, he says, "I’m sorry if I hurt you. It’s been...a stressful period recently. I saw someone following Tyler and I—well. I’m sorry."

La Contessa pokes at her carpaccio starter, refusing to meet his eyes. I take a chance, and kick her under the table this time.

With a shuffle in her chair, she blurts out, "Apology accepted. And I’m sorry if I gave you cause to worry about your husband."

"Let’s dig in," I say heartily, because the moment is awkward enough without extending it.

It’s a good moment, though.

The air of forgive-and-forget continues as I explain to La Contessa what’s been going on in back home, and the letter we found from Angelo. Sasha wasn’t totally down with the idea of showing her the letter, much less the mysterious number at the bottom, but I overruled him. She doesn’t have any instant answers, anyway.

"This was what you wanted to see me for? I’m sorry , but I don’t know; it could mean anything." She throws out a few wild ideas, all of which we’ve already considered. "GPS coordinates? A cipher? The combination to a safe? An international phone number?" She shakes her head. "I’m sorry, but I can’t help you."

Sasha and I exchange a look. "This wasn’t the only thing we wanted to talk about," I start delicately.

For the first time since Sasha’s apology, her eyes become guarded again.