28. Brady #3
With her nostrils still flared, she lowers herself to her knees. I feel viciously triumphant as she clasps her hands in front of her. My supplicant.
“Forgive me, Brady, for I have sinned.” Her ice-blue eyes burn up at me. She sounds completely unapologetic, but I place my hand on top of her head anyway.
“What sin do you ask forgiveness for?”
“Lust.”
“Lust for money?”
“Lust for power.” The way she says power is so ardent that I’m envious of the word itself.
“What does that have to do with you stealing from me?” I smooth my fingers along her hair.
“I’m not asking for your forgiveness for me stealing. I’m asking for your forgiveness for me wanting to share in your power.”
Surprised, I drop my hand from her head. Cora’s gaze remains defiant, but I see the lust behind it that she’s confessed. Ever since I saw her giving orders to my men, I knew she understood the importance of power. But I never expected her to tell me she wants to share mine outright.
“You already have the power of my name,” I remind her.
“It’s not enough,” she says simply, as if this is a normal conversation. If her bare knees are sore from the hardwood, she’s not showing it.
“Explain,” I command, staring down at her with the full force of my authority.
“I want to be your partner.”
It’s so unexpected I almost step backward in shock. But I stay where I am. I watch Cora’s knuckles go white as she grips her clasped hands tighter. She wants to be my partner, and her approach is to treat my money like it’s hers, then beg for power on her knees. An artful tactic.
But she’s not my partner. She’s my wife.
“Stand up,” I order, and she does.
Her chest rises and falls as I evaluate her, but the rest of her bearing is steady. Confident. She deserves power, without question. But I’m not about to give her mine.
I don’t share.
I’ve seen the beauty of her violence, and though I’m curious to see her wield true power, to lessen my own for her sake would be dangerously foolish. I’m not going to give her leverage over me. But like I said, she does have the power of my name.
She is an O’Sullivan.
“Go over to the filing cabinet,” I instruct. “Hands on top, legs spread.”
She doesn’t hesitate. I follow her to the corner, where she does exactly what I told her to.
“Good girl.” I grab her by the hips to pull her backward. “Step back. Watch.”
I move between her and the cabinet as she watches me closely. Intently.
Using both hands, I push in the lock on the second drawer and turn its handle ninety degrees. There’s a heavy click. I pull the filing cabinet along its hidden track, revealing the trap door beneath.
Cora bends to open it, but I stop her.
“No girls allowed.” I can’t have her actually go into the basement and find her attacker’s mutilated body.
“So you’re showing me this without really showing me?”
“I’m only telling you about it in case there’s an emergency. If you ever need a safe room. There’s a lever below to slide the cabinet back into place.”
I wait for her to nod in understanding. But she doesn’t. Her face transforms from determination to softness, as if she’s realized how much her safety means to me.
“Does tonight count as an emergency?” she asks, changing from softness to coyness now.
“What emergency would that be?”
“I need you to fuck me again.”
Jesus, woman. She’s insatiable. She’s giving me a slow, seductive smile, but I shake my head.
“I’m not letting you in the basement tonight,” I tell her. “You wouldn’t like what’s down there.”
This makes her smile disappear, her expression hardening again. I can see the wheels of her tactical mind turning.
“The man who attacked me?” she asks. “Is that where you were this afternoon?” She’s so matter-of-fact about it. She was raised as a mafia daughter, but she has the grit of the best mafia sons. Just like me.
“Yes,” I say. “And yes.”
“Did you already kill him?”
“Yes.”
“Damn.” She looks genuinely disappointed, as if she’d wanted to kill the man herself.
My deliciously violent Cora.
I’m struck again by her straightforwardness about it all. She’d been ready to commit murder without a second thought.
Because she’s done it before.
The realization strikes like a loud snap in my mind. Another piece of my wife clicking into place.
“How old were you when you first killed a man?” I ask, nonchalant. I’m pleased to see her look surprised.
“Sixteen,” she says. The same age as my first kill.
“What was his sin? Did he hurt you?” Anger courses through me at the very thought.
“He hurt Connor. Almost drowned him in a locker room toilet.”
She’s fucking serious about protecting her brother. It takes me too long to remember—that’s the whole reason she’s married to me.
She’s not insatiable. She was bluffing. Scheming her way to get into the basement as soon as I told her it’s off-limits.
Scheming her way to share in my power when I’d caught her stealing from me red-handed.
Stubborn, clever, underhanded woman. Trying to weaken me by strengthening herself. Trying to use sex to manipulate me.
Her mistake. That’s my area of expertise.