Brutal Vows (Queens & Monsters #4)(16)

“Since when do you drink anything but Chianti?”

“Since I started watching this charming young man on YouTube with his own channel all about wine.”

“You’re watching YouTube?”

She nods as if her deciding to get on the internet isn’t as monumental as the moon landing. Up until last year, she’d still been using a rotary phone.

“Pinot is his favorite. He drinks it by the gallon. Let’s have some with the tagliatelle.”

“Wow. Wonders never cease. Okay, Mamma, you’re on.”

I head to the wine fridge, select a bottle, and bring it over to the counter to open it, when a man walks through the kitchen door.

It’s the Irishman.

My heart clenches. My face goes hot. I draw in a sharp breath and freeze.

“Hullo,” he says in a throaty voice, gazing at me.

Past my shock, I manage to say, “You.”

He sends me his signature smirk “Aye. Me.”

He’s holding a wrapped bouquet of white roses. He’s wearing a black suit again. Armani, by the looks of it. His tie and shirt are black, too. On any other man, that much black would make him look like a game show host or an undertaker.

This man in head-to-toe black looks like a runway model who moonlights as an assassin, the smug fucker.

And oh, sweet Jesus have mercy on my soul, I am not noticing how tight the suit is around his crotch area.

I do not see that substantial bulge.

I do not.

I say stiffly, “What are you doing in my kitchen?”

His heated gaze takes a leisurely trip over my body, head to toe and back again. He licks his lips.

“I was in town. I wanted to see Lili.”

I exhale hard and set the bottle of wine on the counter with such force, my mother jumps in her chair.

“If you’d like to see Liliana, Mr. Quinn, you’ll have to make arrangements prior to showing up at our home unannounced. Regardless of how things are done in the Mob, this family has certain standards of conduct.”

“Oh, come now, lass,” he chides, enjoying my agitation at his sudden, unwelcome appearance. “A man should be able to see his fiancée without penciling it in on a calendar.”

Knowing there’s nothing I can do to stop him from showing up any damn time he likes, he smiles.

He’s so lucky I don’t already have the wine opener in my hand. He’d have a corkscrew shoved up his ass before he could speak another word.

Into the ensuing silence, my mother says, “Hey. Irish.”

Quinn looks at her. Judging by his expression, he’s surprised to see someone else in the room. She points to a cabinet behind him.

“The vases are in there. When you’re done arranging the flowers, you can open the wine.” She smiles. “If you can pry it out of Reyna’s hand, that is.”

“Pardon my manners,” Quinn says. “I didn’t see you sitting there.”

“I know. You were too busy annoying my daughter.”

“Mrs. Caruso?”

“The one and only.” She chuckles. “Well, now. The rest of them are worm food.”

God, my mother has a dark sense of humor.

Quinn crosses the kitchen and extends his hand to her. He says respectfully, “It’s my honor to meet you, ma’am. I’m Homer.”

I nearly fall face-first onto the kitchen floor.

First, because Quinn is acting like a human for once—not the ape I know him to be—and second, because…Homer?

Mamma accepts his outstretched hand. He clasps it gently for a moment, inclining his head, then releases it and straightens. She gazes up at him through her glasses with narrowed eyes.

She says bluntly, “What kind of name is that for an Irishman?”

He doesn’t take offense. He only chuckles. “My mother was an art student. Winslow Homer was her favorite artist.”

Mamma cackles. “Good thing it wasn’t Edvard Munch.”

“If I tell you the name everyone else knows me by, you’ll laugh even harder.”

“What is it?”

“Spider.”

She doesn’t laugh. Instead, she looks over at me. “You didn’t tell me he was a comedian.”

“He’s not,” I say through gritted teeth. “But he is leaving.”

“Not before he pours me my wine!”

Quinn’s smug smile reappears. “And puts the flowers in water.”

I mentally telegraph a murder threat to him, which he ignores, turning instead to the cabinet behind him to select a vase from the collection of crystal.

As my mother and I watch him, he brings the vase and the flowers to the sink, tears the plastic and tissue paper wrap from the bouquet, fills the vase from the tap, then says calmly, “Your pot’s boiling.”

I look over at the stove. The pot of water is at a full rolling boil, about to spill over the edges.

Cursing, I abandon the bottle of wine and jump over to the stove. I switch off the heat, turn back to Quinn, and demand, “How did you get in here?”

“Through the front door.”

Cocky bastard. “I mean who let you in?”

“The housekeeper. Nice lass. Bettina, I believe? Couldn’t have been sweeter.”

I bet she couldn’t. One look at Mr. Supermodel Assassin here and she most likely fainted.