A Love Most Fatal (Morelli Family #1)

16. Vanessa

16

VANESSA

This morning I wrote a dollar amount on a scrap of paper and dropped it on the island in front of Nate while he ate a heaping serving of Mom’s oatmeal bake. I could’ve just said the number out loud, but the extra drama was worth it when his eyes nearly fell out of his skull at the price I was willing to pay for his help.

We went back and forth for ten minutes, him saying it’s not nice to lie about money to teachers who, famously, make too little money, especially in this great state of Massachusetts, even at private schools—to which I assured him that I wasn’t lying at all and Willa would even tell him what to do so that he didn’t have to pay taxes on it.

This went over as well as you might expect it to with him; he was indignant that I thought he wouldn’t want to pay taxes, but Mary pointed out that nobody wants to pay taxes and he shouldn’t be such an ungrateful prick.

He shut up then, looked down at the number again, and agreed.

I set him loose on the project and joined Mary and Leo on some rounds; first to a few construction sites, and then on the late payment visits. They’ve been doing more of these since I called for the lockdown, but I’ve attended some. Mary is more than frightening enough to get people to pay up, but some people just need to be reminded that they wouldn’t have the lives they do, the luxuries they so appreciate, without me. It usually scares them straight. Nobody wants a cold visit from the boss.

We are headed to the third such visit when my phone starts buzzing with a call from Cillian. I answer it on speaker so Leo and Mary can also hear.

“Morelli,” I say, just like my dad used to.

“I think I can get McGowan to agree to $410 million,” Cillian says without preamble.

That’s great, more than I expected he’d be able to get, but still not quite enough for all the modifications McGowan wants. Leo’s eyes cut from the road to me with a brief shake of his head.

“Push higher,” I say. “The best we can do with his absurd security specifications is 450.”

Cillian clicks his tongue through the phone. “He feels entitled to a discount. For all the goodwill he’s shown our families in the last decade.”

Mary mutters a slew of curses under her breath at this. McGowan is practically geriatric, Irish, and has been nothing but a dissenting thorn in our family’s side since Willa and Sean got married. He thought it was unreasonable to expect that the good Irish folk of the city would just accept the Morellis with open arms and has made that abundantly clear over the years.

He’s rich as sin, and has old city connections that we don’t want to lose.

“That is the discount. Make him think he’s getting a good deal over my head.”

Mary huffs again, louder this time. “You want him to think you’re an idiot?” she whispers.

“McGowan is the idiot, Mary. It doesn’t matter what he thinks, he’ll be dead in ten years.”

“I’ll try,” Cillian says. I think that’s the end of the call, but he keeps going. “And what’s this I hear about a middle school teacher?”

“What did you hear?” I pinch the bridge of my nose.

“First, that you went on a date with him and nearly got shot?” His disbelief agitates me. God forbid a woman have a social life. And I did not almost get shot. “And then Artie said that he hasn’t come to your house in a week because his teacher is your new boyfriend, and he needs to settle in.”

Leo laughs, Mary grumbles that he’s not good enough to be my boyfriend, and I try not to think about all the ways I want to kill Willa.

“He’s under our protection,” I say.

“Christ, he’s actually staying with you?”

“Just for the summer.” Not that it’s any of Cillian’s business. “He’s harmless.”

“He’s an outsider,” Cillian is using the stern voice he takes with Artie and Angel when they’re being rowdy. “He should move states if he feels unsafe. Not stay in your house .”

“He’s defenseless. Couldn’t hurt a fly, much less betray Boston’s most powerful families. Why don’t you come meet him sometime?”

“Ness—”

“Goodbye, Cillian.” I hang up before he can bother me anymore. I’m not much one for friends, but if I was, Cillian might be my closest one. Though he acts like my fucking father sometimes which pisses me off.

The rest of the afternoon is as expected, if not bloodier. I don’t know how Mary stomachs the unsavory sides of enforcement, but she’s the one who asked for this job. If I had it my way, I’d put her in charge of something else. Maybe we’d expand more into casinos or something. But no, she wants to punch people. One way to get her wiggles out, I guess.

One of our club owners decided to stop paying back our generous and gracious loan and thought we wouldn’t notice. He proceeded to make a poor-taste comment about Mary’s outfit, which ended about as well as anyone would expect: multiple broken bones in his face and hands .

He did pay up, though, and his blood on Mary’s bare legs was enough to make the next guy comply without argument or preamble.

By the time we get home, it’s half past 5 PM and Nate is pacing around the kitchen wearing sneakers, a massive T-shirt, and blue basketball shorts. The man loves to pace almost as much as he loves wearing clothes two sizes too big for his body.

“Nervous?” Mary asks. When he catches a glimpse of the dried blood on her legs and face, he really does look nervous.

“No, you guys are just late.” He shifts on his feet. Leo pats Nate’s shoulder as he walks past him to get changed and Mary and I go up the stairs to do the same.

“Go downstairs and start stretching,” I call from the second story. He looks warily at the basement door like whatever is down there might bite him.

“Should we go easy on him?” Mary asks, but her smirk belies her intention. She couldn’t go easy on him even if she wanted to, which she most definitely does not.

“Start on the treadmill,” I point to the machine next to the one Leo is already running on. “Three miles. No more than ten minutes each.”

“I can’t do that,” he says immediately. “How about one mile?”

“How about five?” Mary bites back.

“Do what you can for thirty minutes,” I reason. “Just don’t stop running.”

Mary and I do our stretches before going through our weight training circuit together on the rack in the corner. At some point, Mary turns up the music loud enough to drown out Nate’s panting. After about fifteen minutes, Leo leans over and hits some buttons on Nate’s treadmill while giving him advice that I’m unable to hear. He slows down substantially, though, and looks moderately less miserable for the second half of the run. He’s still quite sweaty by the end of it.

The drills go about as well as I expect. Nate is generally fit; I am certain he could lift a good amount of weight and can stay energized enough for a sports game, but he’s not a fighter.

Leo demonstrates the drills and critiques Nate’s form in a way that is nicer and more patient than Mary could ever be. Nate doesn’t have much power behind his punches yet, but he will after enough practice. No concerns. It’s the sparring that does him in.

He starts with Leo, who is instructive and gentle on him. Then it’s my turn.

“Keep your hands up,” Mary yells again from the side of the mat. He overcompensates and isn’t fast enough to block when I land a hit to his stomach. It’s a light hit, but he still grunts.

“Why aren’t you hitting her? Hit her!” Leo repeats the direction again and I think Nate might be sick.

I slow my feet and lower my gloves.

“He’s right,” I say. “You have to hit me.”

“But what if I hurt you?” He drops his arms to his sides, and I press my lips together to not smile. I pop a quick hit to his face, not too hard, but enough to startle him.

“What the fuck?”

“Did that hurt?” I ask, and hit him again, then one more time, until he puts his hands back up. “See, you’re fine. Puffy gloves. I’ll be fine.”

Nate glares at me but leaves his hands up.

“Here.” I drop all fighting stance and come up beside him. He tenses like I’m going to get him again, which is a good impulse. I lightly tap my glove to his stomach, then his sides. “Tighten here, and here.”

I use one of my feet to nudge his stance open. “Wider. Like this.” I demonstrate, bent knees, arms loose, core tight. “Good. Now hit me.”

I make my way in front of him again and lower my gloves enough that he has a clear shot. He’s miserable about it, but his stance looks better, and after a few seconds, he hits me.

It doesn’t hurt at all, more of a light tap with the bouncy glove and he looks panicked like he might want to shower me in apologies, but Leo hoots and calls that he’s doing great.

“Again,” I say, and he does, a little harder this time. “Another.”

After three more hits, each stronger than the previous, I grin and put my gloves back up. Leo starts the timer, and we take turns sparring for the next half hour. At some point after going against Leo, Nate loses the shirt confirming that, while lean, he is in fact more cut than his baggy button-ups give him credit for. I blink a few times at the sight of his chest, which has more freckles and hair than I expected, then clear my throat and call for him to switch and fight with Mary next.

He’s the most afraid to fight her; she pulls her punches the least and is relentless on the offense, but it makes him less reserved; he hits harder and quicker which is exactly what I hoped would happen.

I’m sure that they would both hate to admit it, but he’ll learn the most from her.

When we call it for the day, Nate’s face is sunburn red and his hair wet with sweat as he sits on the mat nursing a bottle of water.

“Good work today,” I say. “Tomorrow, we do 6 AM.”

“You’re kidding,” he groans and looks to Leo for sympathy. “She’s kidding, right? Do you hate yourselves?”

“We have to stay sharp,” I say. “You too if you’re going to be interviewing mafiosos.”

This makes the men sound more dangerous than they are—the men Nate will be interviewing are mostly kind of losers, but losers with guns. If he can fight better than them, he’ll be fine, and with us teaching him, he will.

“Get cleaned up for dinner. Artie and Angel are coming and they’re going to have a lot of questions for you.”