Page 51 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
Anyone that insults my country, my intelligence, my feminist ideals, all women in general, and a favorite childhood food, and refers to both himself and me in the third person in one sentence automatically gets an honorary spot on my Hate With Every Fiber of My Being For All Time list. Now if he’d just kick a small animal he’d earn himself top billing.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that if I were you,” says a deep voice. When Luciano and I turn, Parker stands there, staring at us. The bimbette is nowhere to be seen.
“Ah. It is you.” Luciano sneers, and then drapes his arm over my shoulders. “Have you come to see how a real man treats a woman?”
Parker’s cheeks grow ruddy. I expect steam to emit from his ears at any moment, and allow myself a toxic smirk.
He looks at me and says with soft, dangerous intensity, “Can I have a word?”
“I’m so sorry, but as you can see, I’m busy at the moment.”
We stare at each other. Luciano clears his throat. Parker and I continue to stare at each other.
Luciano says, “Maxwell, why don’t you go look for pennies people have dropped on the ground?”
“And why don’t you go look for your manhood, Mancari.”
Confused, Luciano blinks. “What?”
Parker steps closer, his eyes blazing. “Because I’m about to turn you from a rooster to a hen, you preening little prick.”
I simply can’t help myself; I laugh. Luciano looks at me in shocked betrayal. I reassuringly squeeze his arm.
“These American men are so vulgar, aren’t they, Lucky? I’ll bet in Italy no gentleman would say anything like that in front of a lady.”
From the pride in Lucky’s eyes, I can see I’ve been redeemed. He says, “Of course not. Vulgarity is the sign of the lower classes.” He sneers again at Parker and then says something in Italian.
Shockingly, Parker answers right back—in Italian.
Whatever he said makes Luciano go apoplectic. He stiffens, drops his arm from my shoulders, and shrieks, “You dare!”
He lunges at Parker.
I jump out of the way with a yelp. Parker steps swiftly aside as Luciano dives for him. Momentum carries Luciano past Parker. He slams into a waiter holding a tray of food, and they both crash to the floor. Luciano hits his head on the marble with a crack, and falls still. A crowd gathers. The waiter struggles to rise, bits of deviled egg smeared all over his jacket. Facedown, Luciano moans.
I take the opportunity to down my martini and ask the bartender for a refill.
Parker comes up beside me. Tall and imposing, he faces me as I give him the cold shoulder. “This is a very dangerous game you’re playing, Victoria.”
His voice is unexpectedly rough. Without looking at him, I reply, “Don’t you dare talk to me about games, Parker.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Two men are trying to help Luciano to his feet, without success. He keeps falling down, his feet unwilling to stay put beneath him. The gathered crowd is whispering. Giggling.
“Please don’t insult my intelligence. I’ve had enough of that already tonight.”
“Oh, are you referring to your date? The one with the room-temperature IQ?”
I turn and glare at him. “You’re insulting my date? Is yours even of legal voting age?”
He looks at me with such fire in his eyes I’m surprised I don’t ignite. He takes me firmly by the upper arm and turns away from the bar.
“I haven’t gotten my
drink yet!”
“You’ll get it later. There’s something else you need first.”
