Chapter Thirty-Seven Tiernan
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
TIERNAN
My wife was fucking with me.
She wore a sheer lavender minidress to her mother’s birthday.
It hugged her breasts and waist snugly, flaring just above the navel to cover her growing tummy.
Her supermodel-worthy legs were on full display, endless despite her short stature, shimmering with whatever cream she put on after her three-hour baths.
Lila looked both divine and royally pissed off.
She didn’t speak one word to me the entire length of the drive to Long Island. Didn’t greet me like she usually did, either. In our bedroom, with her legs spread, waiting for the first of at least three orgasms I awarded her each day.
Was it healthy for me to spend a few hours each night dedicated to the sole purpose of making my wife scream with pleasure? Doubt it. But it was fun. And fun was a concept foreign to me before Lila brought her sweet little cunt into my life.
“You gonna sulk much longer?” I momentarily tore my eyes from the road so she could read my lips. Her gaze was fixed on her window, and I knew she saw me in her periphery and decided to give me the silent treatment.
Was it nice that I denied her an orgasm this morning? No.
Was it the end of the fucking world? Also no.
Lila started making demands I never agreed to fulfill. Like giving her a full report of where I was, when, and for how long. Not only was it not in my nature to accommodate this kind of fuckery, but it wasn’t safe for her to know the details most of the time.
Granted, there were nicer ways to get my point across than leaving her high and dry.
Too bad I wasn’t feeling very nice at all. Especially when I was reminded of the baby in her belly.
Her pregnant stomach stood between us at all times, reminding me someone else touched what was mine, spilled his seed inside her.
We drove through mundane traffic and arrived at the Ferrantes’ gated community. By the heavy patrols and snipers, I gathered the Keatons were already here.
I parked at the fountain, surrounded by bulletproof vehicles the size of a house.
I rounded the vehicle to open the door for my wife, who ignored my outstretched hand and strutted out on three-inch pink bottomed heels.
Her bum was magnificent, her hair so soft I wanted to be buried inside it, and I resisted biting my fist as I followed her, swelling inside my slacks.
Servants opened the doors for us, and we were led to the candlelit drawing room, where champagne glasses were clanking. Antique furniture bathed in soft golden hues. Classical music floated from the surround system. Yet another luxury Lila couldn’t enjoy.
I detected President Keaton sitting with Vello and Luca in the far corner of the room, engaged in conversation.
Francesca, his wife, was draped across his lap.
It was a tacky look for a president and a first lady.
And yet it was clear the Keatons didn’t spare one bleeding fuck what the world thought about them.
Chiara stood with Enzo. Achilles, Tierney, Sam, and Sofia were on the opposite side of the room.
I assessed Aisling Brennan. She had long black hair and sharp, elfin features. She was by no means a great beauty, but I suppose with her being a doctor and one of the richest heiresses in the States, Sam could swallow the disappointment.
If he felt such disappointment at all. He stared at her as though she was the most beautiful woman in the room.
Which, of course, couldn’t be true, because my wife walked in a few moments ago.
Speaking of, where was my little silvery moon?
I turned my head to watch her make her way to her mother with confidence I knew she didn’t possess. That never stopped Lila from facing her problems, though.
She signed to her mother, “Happy birthday,” and handed her the gift I’d purchased earlier in the day: a hand-painted majolica ewer dating back to 1870 Naples. It was beautiful and rare and obscenely expensive, just like my wife. Much like her, it was obtained in a less-than-kosher way.
I could’ve gotten my mother-in-law a piece of expensive tacky jewelry. But if her relationship with my wife was salvageable, I wanted to try fixing it.
Chiara thanked her coolly and turned back to Enzo. Luckily, the latter had the good sense to gather his sister in a warm hug.
I watched as his hand rested on the small of her back, a burning sensation slithering up my spine.
I knew he was her brother.
I didn’t care.
I did not like people touching my things. And I especially didn’t like it when said thing was my wife.
I contemplated saving Lila from the awkward conversation with her mother—or at least redirect any hostile fire my way—but then remembered I had my own pressing matters to tend to and sauntered over to Brennan instead, plucking champagne from a server with a silver tray on my way there.
“Callaghan.”
“Brennan.”
“Meet my wife, Aisling.”
“Pleasure,” I lied. I didn’t shake her hand. I was fond of my wrist and had an inkling Sam, like me, wasn’t a fan of others touching his woman.
“Your wife is stunning,” Aisling gasped in disbelief, ping-ponging her gaze between us. Yes, I wasn’t much to look at these days, thanks to Achilles, but Lila never seemed bothered by that.
She always made sure I removed my eye patch when I came to bed, rubbing a soothing thumb along the indents it left on my skin.
“You’re very lucky,” Aisling added.
“Luck has nothing to do with it.” I took a swig of my drink. “I’d have claimed her as mine if I had to burn down the whole country.” I frowned, considering my ridiculous statement. “Canada, too.”
Eventually, I’d have seen her in broad daylight. Noticed her.
Once I had, I’d have made her mine.
Even if I had to slaughter every single Ferrante in my way with my bare hands.
Even if she had to watch it.
She was an obsession. A compulsion. Martyrs had died for lesser causes.
I didn’t love her. But there was no denying we changed each other in ways that benefited both of us.
I needed some of her tenderness. And she, in return, received a blank check to be who she truly was—a little fucked up, a tad violent, entirely a sexual woman who deserved to be satisfied often, and hard.
With me, she could be a teenager. Messy. Emotional. Confused.
She could make small mistakes without worrying about the consequences.
“Are you going to stop staring at your wife at some point?” Sam shot me a concerned look.
“Logic dictates that, yes.” I tucked a hand into my front pocket. “But I wouldn’t put money on it, Brennan.”
We fell into boring small talk for a few minutes, most of it carried by Sam, who insisted on being civilized in front of his wife, before Achilles announced, “Enough of this bullshit. Let’s talk shop.”
“That’s my cue to leave you to it.” Aisling smiled, kissing her husband’s lips and moving toward the Keatons. Sam watched her go, his eyes dimming like he just said goodbye to his last ever sunset.
I turned to him. “Well?”
“Alex’s back.” He cut straight to the chase, switching to an entirely new persona. “Landed in Vegas eleven hours ago. With reinforcements.”
“What’s the head count?” I asked.
“Five, at least. Couldn’t confirm their identities, though.”
Probably from his gulag. Fresh warriors he had trained, then planned to unleash here in the States.
“Is he making a move east?”
Sam shook his head. “That’s the good news.
I think we have four, maybe five weeks before he’ll attempt retaliation.
He needs to recoup. Get his ducks in a row.
He just had an entire drug shipment stolen from the dock, so he’ll deal with that first. Next, he has a few turncoats he needs to off in his own ranks.
He’ll probably strike after he’s checked those boxes, though.
He’d want your head on a platter when he assumes his place as pakhan.
It’d be a nice touch if he has your skull when he makes the announcement. ”
“No doubt.” I casually knocked down a vase full of roses on the fireplace mantel. A harem of maids hurried in its direction, sweeping the flowers and chucking them into the bin along with the broken glass.
I wasn’t in any hurry to die anymore. Especially not before I sank my cock into my beautiful wife’s cunt, which I planned on doing very soon.
“This means we have a couple weeks to start moving soldiers into his territory discreetly. Weapons, too,” I mused.
“And we know his life better than he does,” Achilles pointed out. “The blueprints to his estates and warehouses. The names and addresses to all of his first-rank soldiers. We can take them out simultaneously while we go after Alex and his brothers.”
“Are you killing the baby sister, too?” Sam asked. Katya was eighteen, maybe nineteen, and apparently harmless.
I nodded. “No Rasputin left behind.”
“Tiernan, how many soldiers do you think we’re gonna need?” Achilles turned to me.
“Twenty, excluding you and me.”
We were going to lose some Camorristi. He knew it. So did I. It was the sacrifice Vello agreed to make when I married his daughter.
“It’s not just going to be us,” Achilles said. “My father said either Enzo or Luca is coming. I’m leaning toward Enzo. He hasn’t participated in many combats yet. This’ll be a good exercise for him.”
I flicked one look at the youngest Ferrante brother. He was talking to Lila, using sign language. He was as illiterate at ASL as he was in English. But he was the only brother who seriously attempted it in the first place. And she seemed to be the fondest of him.
“No.” I turned to look at Achilles. “We’ll take Luca.”
“Luca’s wife’s pregnant.”
“So is mine,” I deadpanned. “Enzo stays here.”
I trusted him the most to take care of Lila if something happened to me. Luca was reliable, but too caught up in his own affairs. “And I thought Luca and Sofia were having troubles.”
“Not in bed, apparently.” Achilles lit himself a cigarette. “We’ll take the private plane. I have some weapons I’ve been meaning to try out.”