Page 12 of Velvet Cruelty

“But… the explosions?”

“C4 down in the sewers. So, I guess some NYC plumbing died. You gonna cry about it?”

January stares into the middle distance. “Everyone’s safe?”

“Yup. You’re the only person who got fucked over in this arrangement.”

“Oh.”

I expect her to start bawling, but she just blinks rapidly. “So, are you really a doctor?”

I stare at her. For a girl with unicorn stickers on the back of her phone, I wasn’t expecting this much backchat. “Does it matter if I’m really a doctor?”

“I… No. I just don’t know what to call you.”

I grab the front of my jeans. “You can use Father Monastero, if you want. That got me hard.”

She flinches. “I don’t…”

I laugh. “Or you can keep playing innocent, lurida sgualdrina. That gets me hard too.”

“I’m not a whore.” Her eyes widen and she claps a hand to her mouth.

For a second, I don’t understand, then it clicks. “You speak Italian?”

She shakes her head.

“You speak Italian,” I repeat more to myself. “Capisci cosa ti sto dicendo, vero?”

She keeps shaking her head, but I can see the comprehension in her eyes. I swear under my breath. How could we have missed this? She’s Anglo. Her whole family is Anglo. Mentally scanning our plans, her speaking Italian doesn’t change anything, but how did we miss it? “Who taught you Italian?”

She shoves herself backward on the carpet. “No one.”

I point the blade at her. “Who. Taught you. How to speak. Italian?”

“My Zia.”

“Your Zia?”

“She’s not really my auntie. She’s my housekeeper. My nanny. She’s lived with me my whole life. I call her Zia Teresa.”

There was an old woman around the house, but neither of us gave her a second thought. “Dyed hair? Smokes cigs?”

January blinks rapidly. “Yes. How—”

“This old girl taught you how to say, ‘filthy whore?’”

“No. Our gardeners… they were Sicilian. I used to overhear them sometimes.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. Sicilians are swine.”

A small smile creases her mouth.

“What?” I ask.

“Why do all other Italians hate Sicilians?”

She’s trying to be funny. Sweet. I drop to my heels beside her and flip the knife over my knuckles. Her eyes go glassy. Better. I jerk my head at the blackened windows. “It’s dark now, Tits. If you’d stayed at your wedding, you’d be married. Eating crab while Zachery Parker gropes your thighs under the table.”

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