If Tony stands up, I’m Oscar Mike.
I will shove off and shove him back from her before his eye twitches in a fucking wink.
He folds his hands behind his head, then looks at me.
Good.
Stay the hell away from her. Tony thinks I’m Banks, but my brother would be just as protective of Jane as I would of his girlfriend (if he had one).
I glare, and the more I stab him between the eyes, the more he grins. He smacks O’Malley’s chest, stealing his attention, and very loudly, he says, “You know that Banks’ brother does butt stuff?” He laughs.
That affects me about as much as chugging water, but it shoots a bullet through multiple people.
“Excuse me?” Jane springs to her feet, and Maximoff stands at her side.
Farrow and Oscar are glaring at Tony.
I carefully watch Jane as she marches to the couch and confronts him. She can handle her own, but it fucking kills me knowing he won’t respect a word she says.
“What?” Tony playfully crosses his arms, still seated.
“I want to know why you laughed like that was an insult,” Jane demands. “Please, share with us.”
Tony lets out another laugh and raises a patronizing hand. “Hey, Jane, it’s okay if your boyfriend wants you to play with his asshole. It just makes him a little less, you know…manly.”
You could hear a pin drop.
I don’t blink. More focused on her anger than anything.
“Someone educate this motherfucker,” Oscar says under his breath.
Farrow catches Maximoff’s wrist before he storms Tony, and he brings his fiancé’s shoulders and back into his chest. “He’s not worth it, wolf scout.”
“First of all—” Jane raises a pointer finger “—men are not less masculine for having anything in their ass—”
“But it makes them gay,” Tony cuts her off with a smirk.
Jane steeples her hands. “No, it doesn’t. You see, every man has a prostate gland, and prostate stimulation is not an indication of sexual orientation. It feels immensely good to some, and you can enjoy this very much and prefer any gender.”
“There we go,” Farrow says quietly.
Tony leans comfortably back and smiles up at Jane. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself.”
Jane stews. “I feel sorry for you, that you can’t see how insecure you are and how secure he is. He’s a better man than you’ll ever be.”
I hit the jackpot with this girl, and holy hell, I’m smiling.
Until I see a switch in Tony.
His eyes go dark.
It kicks my ass to a stance.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Jane.” He stands, puffing out his chest. “Go sit down—”
“Hey,” I cut in, my stride severe. Urgent. “What the fuck are you doing?!”
Tony uses his height to loom over Jane. To physically intimidate her—and I bolt, fury blasting in my veins, and I draw her behind me in an instant, and I confront him full-force.
I’m not shoving him back.
I’m done with that shit.
I fist his shirt and pull him up, his feet off the ground.
He curses me out in Italian and swings. Knuckles bash my jaw, pain lost under adrenaline and rage, and I head-butt the fuckbag and throw him on the floor.
Yells pitch the air. But no one stops us. No one comes to his defense. I’m done going easy on him.
Because he’s family.
Because I know better.
Because I’m too strong and I should use my strength to defend.
Tony scrambles to his feet with a wince. I knock his ass back on the floor, and we’re in a brawl. Fists flying, knees in ribs, and my pulse is ringing in my ear.
Blood in my mouth, I spit to the side, and we’re on our feet. I outsize Tony, and I pin him against the wall, a framed picture of Loch Ness crashing down. This isn’t even a fair fight. I could drag him halfway around the house, and the fire in my lungs starts to die.
He’s weaker.
I don’t hurt weak things. I protect them.
He tries to head-butt me.
I fake left, then slam a fist in his gut, and he chokes out, “Outside.” He coughs. “Let’s go outside…and finish this.”
I narrow the hottest glare on him and I’m thinking, how stupid can this shitbag be? If the cold doesn’t kill him, I will.
“Scared, Banks?” He tries to slam me back. I don’t budge, and I twist his shirt more around my fist and hoist him higher up the wall.
He writhes.
“I’ll kill you,” I warn him.
Fear strikes his eyes for a fleeting second, then arrogance causes his lips to rise, and he shakes his head strongly. “I have you beat.”
My eyeballs sear, unblinking, and my chest is on fire—and if I take him up on his offer, if we go “fight it out” in frostbitten temperature and waist-deep snow, I won’t be fighting Tony.
I’ll be fighting myself. To stop from killing him, and I want to be a man that Jane deserves.
Not a killer.
My hands are soaked in blood from war, and I haven’t taken a soul since.
“For a second, I thought you were Thatcher…”
I stiffen.
“But he’d never hesitate like you.” Tony laughs into a slight cough. “Looks like we know which one has the bigger balls.”
“Fuck you,” I growl between gritted teeth.
He tries to pry my hands off his shirt. “Let’s do this.”
My neck is tensed, and I release my grip. Breathing coarse breath through my nose.
Tony slides down, and he takes one step towards the front door—and I cold-cock him. Fist to jaw, and the blow is lights out.
He thumps to the floorboards.
Unconscious.
33
BANKS MORETTI
7 Extended Days Pretending to Be Thatcher
What a fuckin’ day to have a killer migraine. I can count on my hand the number of times Xander leaves the house and greets daylight in a given week. And of course today—the day I have a blistering, thunder-fucking headache—I’m outside.
My aviators need three times the tint to combat the sun because Lord knows sunlight and I are old enemies. That billion-years-old burning ball of roid-raging fire likes to ramp up my headache by a thousand degrees.
Good thing Xander has no clue I’m in pain, or he probably would’ve insisted we return home. The last course of action I want is for that kid to change his plans for my ass.
I scratch the scuff along my jaw, grown out more than usual. Gold horns rest against my black button-down, the sleeves rolled as heat radiates from an outdoor fireplace.
The patio to Easton Mulligan’s house—excuse me, mansion—is as bougie as every other landscaped backyard on this street: sheared hedges, stone-rimmed pools, lounge chairs worthy of grape-eating narcissists. Pretty sure some teenager around here has fallen into the deep-end staring at their own reflection.
Or snapping a selfie.
Easton’s mansion also includes heated patio stones. The Hale house in this same gated neighborhood doesn’t even have that. Snow soaks the grass, but the sitting area around the fireplace is dry.
Seated on the warm stone, Xander faces Easton around a glass coffee table, a board game and colorful pieces scattered between them.