“Seeing him, Harry thought he looked more like one of those guys holding the velvet rope, the ones who decided whether you could be allowed into a popular nightclub, than a homicide detective. Rossetti was thirty-six and hot, yet he still lived at home with his mom, who ironed his shirts, fixed his favorite pasta, and never allowed him to bring home a girl. Harry knew Rossetti kept his own apartment but he simply couldn’t bear to hurt his widowed mother by letting her know about it. He was a goo...d old-fashioned Italian son. Harry hit the brake, told the dog to get in the back, then put down the window. “Hey, mama’s boy,” he yelled, grinning as Rossetti glanced quickly from side to side to see if anybody had caught the insult. “Fuck you.” Rossetti circled the Jag and clambered in. “Daddy’s boy.” Harry grinned. “Never. Not even a shot. In fact I’m surprised ‘Daddy’ ever talked to me since I always did what I wanted and not what he wanted me to do.” Rossetti shrugged.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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