“Doc,” I snarl. “You’re not my fucking mother.”

“Domenico Valente who we call Doc,” Morelli finishes irritably. “He played the part of your priest today.”

January’s green eyes fill with tears, probably remembering her pathetic confessions—staying up too late on school nights, being jealous of her friends for going to the movies. I wave at her. She says nothing.

Morelli sighs. “Miss Whitehall, I was told you were polite. Do I need to teach you manners?”

She looks at Basher in a wordless plea for help.

“Do not look at him,” Morelli says in a silky voice. “Look at Domenico and greet him.”

January addresses my chin. “Hello, Domenico.”

I grin. “I’ve changed my mind. She can call me that all day.”

Morelli puts a hand on Basher’s shoulder. “And this is—”

“Bobby,” Basher interjects. “Just Bobby.”

Morelli pauses. Usually when people interrupt him, he has Adri break their fingers, but he loves Basher, treats him like a baby brother. He gives him a small nod. “Fine. Miss Whitehall, this is Bobby. Sometimes we call him Basher.”

January tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Good evening, Bobby.”

Basher goes bright red. He thinks an anglicized name makes him her type. He’s deluded. She doesn’t have a type. She’s a pretty little girl who doesn’t know her asshole from her elbow. The irony is, the only one with an Anglo name is Morelli. His dad called him ‘Elliot’ after a business partner. Word is, when the epidural wore off and Morelli’s mom saw the birth certificate, she went for his eyes.

A current is passing between January and Basher. She’s still screaming at him to rescue her. Makes sense. She’s spent the most time with him and now that we’re all together, she trusts him the most. It’s high time someone took a shit on that.

I whistle. “Hey, Whitehall. Did you know we call Bobby ‘Basher’ because his real name’s Roberto Bassilotta?”

January’s eyebrows pull together.

“Also, his parents farmed pigs in Ohio and his Nonno fought for Mussolini.”

Adriano lets out a snort of laughter. Basher looks like I stomped on his puppy. I shoot him a wink. “Sorry, Bash, but you need to have more pride in your heritage.”

“Puttaniere psicotico,” Morelli mutters. Psychotic whoremonger. He flicks a finger at January, who’s risen to her knees. “You. Get back on the floor.”

She obeys, lowering herself down onto her ass. “Mr. Morelli, can I ask why I’m here?”

“You’re questioning me?”

He says it as though it’s a throwaway line, but the undercurrent zaps her. “No. Not at all, I just…”

He walks toward her, studying her face, her body. He’s fussy, Morelli. His taste in pussy is more expensive than his taste in clothes. And unlike the three of us, this is the first time he’s seen January up close. Unless you count her sliding around the van unconscious.

He takes her chin and turns her face this way and that. “Why did you have security guards, bella?”