Wrong (A Bad Boy Romance)(59)

“I liked ‘not my fault’ better.” I can’t help chuckling a little, and I kiss the top of her head. “Anyway, we got him back.”

She jerks back from me, terror on her face again. “Oh my God. What did you do? I knew you were going to do something stupid.”

I shrug. “Torched his Porsche.”

Her jaw drops, and she stares at me. “His Porsche? He loves his Porsche. He’s going to be madder about that than he was about you taking me.”

“Really? ’Cause it was kind of pretty, but it was just a car.”

Sarah just shakes her head. Her face has gone white. “He’s going to kill you, Nick. He’s seriously going to kill you.”

“He can try.” Gently I pull her back against me. “Don’t get yourself so worked up. It’s not good for the baby. Here—you go change, and I’ll make you a sandwich, okay?”

I expect her to protest, but she doesn’t. She heads upstairs to change, and I’m left to put together a ham sandwich, when we should still be back at the hall eating prime rib.

I clench my teeth. De Luca is going to die for this. And for so many other things, but seeing Sarah with mascara all over her face is the proverbial straw that’s broken my back.

And I’m not going to stand for it anymore, no matter what Spada says.

#

Sarah’s curled up warm next to me in the morning. It was all I could do to keep my hands off her last night, and it’ll take the same kind of restraint this morning. But it didn’t seem right to ask for sex right after she told me she was pregnant, and it doesn’t seem right this morning, either.

So I just kiss her gently on the temple before I get out of bed, trying not to wake her. I’m sure she can use her rest. But I have work to do, and I can’t stay home, unfortunately.

When I get downstairs I grab my cell phone from its spot on the kitchen counter and notice it’s blinking. A flash of adrenaline hits me. Text? Voice mail? From whom? Did somebody see us leaving the scene of the crime last night? I turn on the phone. Voice mail. “Emergency meeting.” It’s one of Spada’s lieutenants. He gives the location—it’s at one of our regular restaurant meeting rooms rather than at Spada’s home office, which is unusual. The time—I need to leave right away.

So I leave Sarah a quick note and go, spending the whole drive wondering what shit has hit the fan now.

Major shit, as it turns out. Spada’s not there, and Leo, one of his senior lieutenants, is leading the meeting. I’m surprised it’s not Sal, but Sal is smirking in a corner. Something big has gone down—I can tell the minute I walk in the room.

“Thanks for coming so quickly,” Leo says as I take a seat at the table. Sal gives me a sidelong glance, which I don’t bother to acknowledge. Leo’s gaze takes in the whole room. “We can get straight to business.”

“Yeah,” says Sal, his tone a bit sullen. “What the hell’s going on?”

Leo glances briefly at Sal but pays more attention to the rest of the room. “Phil Spada was arrested this morning.”

The room blows up, question layering over question. Leo puts up with it for about ten seconds then lifts a hand and gives a piercing whistle.

“Shut up, and I’ll give you the details.”

The room takes a few seconds to settle back to silence. I sit quietly, hands in my lap, deliberately not looking at Sal even though I can feel his eyes scraping me from his corner of the table.

“The FBI took him in very early this morning,” Leo continues. “As I understand it, the charges are racketeering as well as some other charges related to the MMA fights.” There’s another swell of voices, but Leo lifts a hand. “Yes, one of the fighters went state’s evidence. There’s nothing we can do about it now.”

“What’s going to happen now?” This is Chris, one of my own men. “Who’s in charge?”

“That’s what we’re here to decide.”

“Decide?” This is Sal, of course. “What the fuck is there to decide? We all know who’s been Spada’s right-hand man since Carmine bit it.”

Leo gives him a sharp look. “My orders are to take a vote.”

“Orders from whom?”

“From Spada.” He holds Sal’s gaze just a moment longer than Sal’s apparently comfortable with, because Sal finally leans back in his chair. “We vote,” Leo continues, “between Sal De Luca and Nick Angelino.”

“What the—” Another incipient outburst from Sal, but Leo cuts him off with a look.

“Show of hands,” Leo says, raising his voice. “Sal De Luca.”