Family dinner didn’t end in bloodshed, but everyone was pretty quiet throughout the rest of the meal, which wasn’t at all normal for any of us.
Hell, normal would have been Tex trying to shoot me with one hand while offering me pasta with the other.
Instead, he was silent.
Nixon looked pissed.
Chase was ready to join him in what I assumed would be a really heated discussion with Frank, once Trace went to bed.
And that left me and Ax.
My brother had been invited to family dinner because he’d been welcomed into the elite fold, not because he actually had any power or say over what happened. It was not like I had any power either.
Then again, sometimes I wondered if they only invited me so they could keep a watchful eye on my activity — keep your friends close, your enemies closer and all that.
I eyed the bottle of vodka and grimaced. I’d mistakenly admitted to Andi that I’d never tried the good stuff.
The good stuff, according to her, being Stoli.
I wasn’t convinced.
I should have kept my mouth shut — because by the time we arrived back at the house she was ready to add getting drunk with me to the top of her honeymoon list.
“Isn’t that…” I hated being an ass, but it needed to be said. “…really unhealthy if you’re already sick?”
“Riddle me this, Italy.” Andi grabbed my hand then lifted it into the air, twirling beneath my arm as we walked into the house. “If you only had one day to live, would you drink water all day, hoping it would prolong those twenty-four hours into twenty-five?”
“You have more than a day to live.”
“Answer the question.”
I let out a heavy sigh. “No, probably not.”
“My point exactly, amigo. It’s about quality of life.”
“So I’m Mexican now?” I grimaced.
Andi winked and tugged me into the smaller of the two living rooms. Brown leather couches were focused in around a small fireplace, while the back side of the room was lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling. It resembled more of an office than a living room, but it had a certain coziness about it that the other larger room didn’t.
“You…” She poked my chest. “…grab the vodka, and I’m going to go change into something more comfortable.”
My mind whirled at that statement, was comfortable code word for lingerie? Or was she seriously going to go put on sweats? And why the hell was I still staring at the damn vodka bottle, wondering what she was doing upstairs?
Ten minutes passed.
Then twenty.
I was starting to get worried when, in a flurry of activity, Andi rushed into the room, only stopping long enough to grip my shoulders then hoist herself onto my lap.
I loved how small she was.
Miniature-sized.
My eyes drank in her nearly white, see-through tank top and black spandex shorts.
I cupped the sides of her hips; it made me feel huge — and like I was actually able to protect her. Though the thought was short-lived. I could protect her from environmental things but not internal. That was my horrible reality.
“Okay, my Italian lover,” She grabbed the glass bottle and unscrewed the top then tilted her head back and took a long swig. I expected her to wheeze, cough, or at least stutter a bit. Instead, it may as well have been water with the reaction she had.
Damn, her eyes didn’t even water.
“Your turn…” She held out the bottle then bit back a grin.
Reluctantly, I grabbed the bottle from her and eyed it warily before taking a long sip — one that matched hers.
The minute the alcohol touched my lips, I regretted ever even agreeing to her plan. It tasted like shit, nothing smooth about vodka as it pours down your throat.
I barely held back a cough as I handed back the bottle and wiped my mouth.
“Good?” She tilted her head.
“Great,” I lied, while the vodka cheerfully burnt a hole through my esophagus. “It’s like lighter fluid, Andi.”
“Now there’s a thought. What if I drink, then you light a match, and—”
I covered her mouth with my hand. “No pyrotechnics.”
Her tongue reached out and licked my hand.
I jerked it back.
“So that’s it? You’re just going to give up, huh Italy? You know wine’s a chick drink, right?”
I gripped her hips between my hands and squeezed. “You may as well just rip up the Italian flag and burn it! Who says that?”
She took another long swig of vodka and whispered, “Russians.”
“I drink whiskey more than wine.” Why the hell was I defending myself? “Not that it matters.”
“Does that make you feel like more of a man?”
“Does it seem like I need to feel more like a man, Andi?” In frustration, I nipped her lower lip.
Andi leaned backward. “You sure you want to kiss lighter fluid?”
My eyes narrowed as I took the bottle from her outstretched hand. “One more drink.”
Famous last words.
Because we finished the bottle.
Because I was completely unable to let the girl drink me under the table. It was a guy thing — not even a pride thing, but a pure masculine need to make sure the pixie didn’t destroy me in something I should be able to beat her at.
“Tell me.” Damn Russian wasn’t even slurring her words, while I was trying to figure out just how many logs I needed to put back on the fire. Everything was double. I blinked a few times at her, hoping to clear my head.