Page 34 of Wicked King

“Whatever you say, spitfire.”

“And stop calling me that.”

“Would you prefer honey? Sweetheart? Babe?”

“No,” she snarls. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me at all.”

“That’s going to make for a very long fifty years…”

“Fifty?” Her eyes dart back to mine.

“Well, you’re in your twenties and I just turned thirty, so I figure we’ve got at least fifty good years of marriage?—”

Her dramatic groan cuts off my calculations. “I’d rather die than be chained to you for half a century.”

“Rude.”

“Ugh, just go to bed, Marco.”

“I’d be happy to?—”

“Sleep! Just sleep.”

“You’re no fun at all, spitfire.”

CHAPTER 17

TWO WEEKS

Jia

Muffled snores draw me from a deep, peaceful slumber. My head slowly rises and falls, like a boat gently rocking at sea. I pry my heavy lids open and find my nose nestled in a jungle of dark, curly hair, inches away from a gold cross.

What the heavens?

I gasp and inhale a heady dose of bergamot and cedarwood. No, no, no.

My arm is sprawled across a firm torso and a steel band is laced around my waist, holding me against the hairy Italian mobster.

How did this happen?

I try to extricate myself from his hold before he wakes and finds me curled in his arms like a fool, but even asleep his arm is like a steel trap.

“Good morning, baobèi.” Yéye appears from around the brick wall of my bedroom, a smirk playing on his wrinkled lips, and heat splashes across my cheeks.

“Get off me,” I grumble and shove at the mass of unconscious male.

Marco’s lids finally open a crack, and a devious smile crosses that unfairly handsome face.

“Morning, spitfire.”

“When did you get on the couch?”

He shrugs. “At some point in the night. The floor was terribly uncomfortable.”

“Well now I’m terribly uncomfortable because you took up the whole damned couch.”

“You looked fairly comfortable to me, baobèi.” My traitorous grandfather’s eyes sparkle with mirth.

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