Chapter 23
23
MICHAEL
I collapse over her, my spine and thighs tingling from the sheer force of my orgasm. Jesus. That was insane. I haven’t cum that fast since I was a randy teenager. Completely lost my fucking grip on my control.
I lift myself off her, suddenly worried my weight might be crushing her delicate frame. Her eyes are closed, those pink lips slightly parted, chest rising and falling in ragged pants, a sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead.
Mine. All mine.
“Are you okay?” I ask, brushing my knuckles over her cheek.
Her golden eyes flutter open in thin, hazy slits. She stares up at me blankly for a moment, like she’s confused how we got here, and my chest swells with pride, cock twitching inside her. I did that to her.
And then— fuck —her core clenches around me, and I feel myself stir again.
She groans, pressing her hand to my chest. “Are you getting hard again? You’re insatiable.”
I smirk, then lean down to sweep a few damp strands of hair off her forehead. “Insatiable for you,” I murmur, rolling my hips slowly, just enough for her to feel it, and her fingers dig into the flesh of my chest, a breathy moan spilling from her lips.
“ Michael .”
“I know, love.” I pull out of her with reluctance, and my gaze locks onto our mixed pleasure slowly leaking out of her pink sheath. My brain stalls at the sight. Wrong. That shouldn’t be wasted. That belongs inside her.
Without thinking about it, I place three fingers against the inside of her thigh and drag them up, gathering our cum—then push it right back into her. She gasps, her hands slapping against the sheets, her core trapping my fingers in its tight heat.
I grab one of the pillows and pat her hip. “Up.” When she lifts herself, I slide it beneath her, tilting her pelvis upward. “There.”
“What are you doing?” Her eyes narrow, flicking down to where my fingers are still buried inside her.
I don’t answer. I don’t need to. But as I watch the last of her pleasure-haze dissolve from her gaze, I sigh with regret and pull my fingers out.
“You came inside me,” she says slowly, like she’s processing in real time, her brows furrowing as a look of disbelief washes over her face. Then her golden eyes snap to mine, flashing with something that looks a hell of a lot like betrayal, and my shoulders rise defensively.
“You wanted it too. Begged me for it,” I remind her.
Her lips part.
For several heartbeats, she just stares at me, her mouth working soundlessly as the betrayal on her face morphs into white-hot fury. “You motherfucker,” she finally spits, grasping at the bedcover and yanking it violently off the bed, nearly dragging me to the floor in her flurry.
She wraps the black sheet around her body like armor and jabs a shaking finger at me. “You know I’m not on birth control!”
“Why does it matter now?” I counter, genuinely confused by her reaction. “I’m clean; I assume you’re clean, and we’re married. So what if you get pregnant?” The words sound perfectly reasonable to my ears.
But her whole body jerks, like I just slapped her.
“Crazy bastard,” she snaps, her finger now aiming at the door. “Get the fuck out.”
I don’t move.
Her voice rises to a shout. “Out!”
What the fuck? I shake my head, starting to get worked up myself. What the hell is her problem? I get off the bed calmy—controlled, even as frustration knots tight in my gut. My pants are on in seconds. When I glance back, she’s still glaring, finger still pointing at the door like she’s ready to exorcise me from the room.
For a second, I want to remind her that this is our room, but the way she’s vibrating makes me hold my tongue. “We’ll pick this up later,” I mutter, stalking out.
In the hallway, I run a hand through my hair, my mind still running circles. Is it because she begged me for it in the heat of the moment? Is that why she’s so angry?
We’re married, for fuck’s sake, so it can’t be that she’s scared she’d have to raise our child alone—she’d have every luxury, every advantage I could provide.
The whole thing makes no damn sense.
I head straight for my office, eager for something to distract my seething thoughts. A short message from Lorenzo is waiting for me, requesting I call him, so I do.
“Michael,” he answers on the first ring.
“Talk to me,” I say, moving my mouse to wake my computer. The screen brightens, and I navigate through the open tabs until I land on the house security feed. When I pull up the bedroom camera, I frown.
Gianna is pacing like a caged tigress, mouth working furiously, hands flailing like she’s in a heated argument—with herself.
Women. Such bizarre, baffling creatures.
“I think I’ve discovered the chain of the drug dilution in the city,” Lorenzo reports. “And there’s been some rumors flying around about us being the suppliers of the drugs. I believe the culprits are the same—they’re aware we’re onto them and are trying to divert attention towards us.”
“Fucking hell. I also got some intel yesterday that our culprit might show up tonight at The Pulse.” A fact I’d almost forgotten, distracted by the dinner and my tempestuous wife. “Where are you?”
“At The Pulse,” he replies.
“Good. I’ll meet you there soon.” We end the call, but I linger, watching Gianna on the monitor for a few more moments. Still pacing. Still talking to no one.
Despite my annoyance, something uncomfortable twists inside me at the thought of leaving her alone when she’s this upset. But I don’t have time to deal with it now. Business first.
With a sigh, I finally get up from my seat, grabbing the jacket off the desk and shrugging it on as I leave the office.
I take the stairs two at a time and walk into the cold night where my McLaren is waiting for me in the driveway.
It takes mere minutes to leave New Rochelle behind and race into Manhattan. The late hour means empty streets, so soon I’m pulling up outside The Pulse, one of Rafael’s numerous nightclubs in the city.
The valet is at my elbow as soon as I get out of the car. “Don’t take it too far,” I tell him, handing over my keys. “I’m not staying long.”
As I turn towards the entrance, the bouncer catches my eye and pulls the rope back. But I wave him off, opting for the side door instead—no need to announce my presence and potentially spook my prey.
I step into the deafening club and wince as the wall of sound hits me. The place bursts with bodies—dancing, smoking, drinking, grinding. I scan the packed room with distaste. Christ. Hard to believe this used to be my scene. Ever since I saw Gianna’s picture, my whole fucking world shifted so drastically it’s like looking at a stranger’s former life.
Despite choosing the side entrance, heads turn the moment the door closes behind me. Several familiar faces wave, beckoning me to their tables with promises of drinks and companionship I no longer crave. I decline each invite with a curt head shake as I make a beeline straight to the VIP lounge where Lorenzo is waiting for me.
As I close the lounge door, the loud music fades to a muffled throb, and I blow out a breath of relief. Finally. This area is mercifully less crowded since only a select few are allowed in here, so it’s easy to spot Lorenzo.
I make my way to his booth and slide in across from him. As soon as I’m sitting down, he pushes a clear package containing a white substance towards me. I don’t need to ask him what it is.
Frowning, I unseal it and rub a small pinch between my fingers. Powdery smooth. I let it slip back into the package and dust off my fingers with disgust. “How did this get in here? This is Rafael’s territory.” With how tightly he clamps down on things like this, it should be impossible.
“It was smuggled in by one of ours,” Lorenzo answers, reclaiming the package and pocketing it carefully. That’s our evidence.
I tap my index finger against the tabletop, a rhythm matching my rising irritation. “Who?”
“Don’t know yet. But if your intel is correct, they should be here right now.”
“My intel is always correct.” I’m not even bragging—it’s just a fact. My sources have learned through painful lessons not to feed me half-baked bullshit. Most who’ve sent me on wild goose chases typically end up losing their tongues—or worse—for wasting my valuable time. “Do we know what’s mixed in there?”
“I had it tested at a lab,” he says, leaning forward. “It’s a mixture of our opioids—morphine, codeine, oxycodone—with Kali Kush. Dangerous stuff. A few dead bodies surfaced last night, and I suspect they’re linked to these drugs. They all OD’d.”
My hands form fists on the table. This isn’t going to slide. Not on our turf. We need to catch these motherfuckers, and soon.
“Let’s go check the security cameras. I’m suddenly very eager to see whose neck I’ll be snapping for releasing this shit into the streets.” I get to my feet, my blood already pumping with anticipation.
We leave the lounge and make our way to the security room at the back. The men stationed there step back for us and bring up the feeds I ask for.
As my eyes scan through the security feeds, my veins are flooded by an adrenaline surge. He’s somewhere here. I just need to be able to recognize him.
“There!” Lorenzo points at one corner of the screen.
I follow his direction and spot a group of four men huddled by the bar, heads close together, whispering urgently. Then, as if sensing the heat on them, they stiffen, glancing around with obvious fear.
They know.
They’re going to run. “Stop them from leaving. Get the bouncers on them now!” One of the security men grabs his walkie-talkie and barks rapid orders to the floor team, but my gut tells me it’s already too late.
I watch with burning frustration as the men quickly push through the crowds and disappear through the back door, seconds before the bouncers can reach them. “Goddamn it!” I slam my fist against the desk, the equipment rattling under the impact. I came all the way here, left my furious wife alone at home for this bullshit?
“Do you know who they are?” I demand of everyone present. No one answers, and I don’t need to look back to know they’re all shaking their heads.
“I’ve never seen any of them before. They’re not ours,” Lorenzo confirms.
“Rewind the feed.” My command sends one of the security men scrambling forward to obey. I pause the playback at the moment all four men glance around the bar. Only two faces are clear, but that’s more than enough to work with. I take out my phone and snap photos of their faces to run through my identification software later.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say, dropping my phone back into my pocket. My patience is gone. I have an angry wife waiting for me at home—a different kind of explosive situation requiring my attention.