Page 143 of Madness & Mercy
The word hits me like a shot.
I whip back around. “Thefuckdid you just say?”
Enzo throws his hands up. “Easy. Just borrowing Nico’s nickname for you. Didn’t think it’d getthisstrong of a reaction.”
“That asshole put you up to this?”
He shakes his head slowly, like I’m amusing but also kind of pathetic. “Nope. He didn’t tell me shit. But like I said, you two ain’t subtle—I hear things.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll never understand how a word that literally meansdogsounds like a compliment in another language.”
He tilts his head, amused. “You think that’sallit means?”
I frown. “I Googled it.”
He laughs like I just said something stupid.
“Ah, Google. The Holy Bible of street Italian.”
My eyes narrow. “Well, hurry up and tell me.”
He leans back in his chair, fork dangling between his fingers. “It’s from cane—dog—but ‘cagnolino’ is a diminutive. Means small dog.”
I cross my arms. “That’s literally what Google said.”
“Yeah, but here’s what Google didn’t tell you—it’s affectionate. Something you call someone you think is worth keeping close, worth protecting. Like calling someone ‘puppy’ in English. And for a hitman? That’s comedy gold.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Andcucciolo?”
“That’s ‘cub.’ Same deal. Instead of puppy, he’s calling you a little bear.”
I shift, not sure if I want to roll my eyes or… something else entirely.
“Andpiccolino?”
He smirks over the rim of his glass. “Little one.”
That crazy bastard. There’s nothinglittleabout me. “What aboutpiccolo puttano?”
Enzo nearly chokes, coughing into his water before laughing through it.
“Yeah… you might want to letNicoexplain that one.”
Which, naturally, is the kind of answer that guarantees I’ll be thinking about it for the rest of the goddamn day.
Piccolo puttano.
I can practically hear Nico saying it in that low, lazy drawl of his, like he’s got all the time in the world to make it sound like both an insult and a promise. I hate that it makes my pulse jump. I hate even more that my brain immediately adds in the detail of his mouth at my ear, warm breath curling down my neck.
It’s ridiculous. I should be insulted—hell, maybe I am insulted—but the word sits in my head like a live grenade, just waiting for the pin to get pulled. My brain’s already spinning it in the dirtiest way possible, conjuring up images I have no business entertaining before breakfast.
Enzo’s still watching me with that knowing smirk, like he’s reading my thoughts line for line.
“What?” I snap.
“Nothing,” he says, shoveling another bite of pasta into his mouth. But that grin says everything.
I shake my head, trying to evict Nico’s voice from my skull, but it just digs in deeper. I pivot fast.
