Chapter 20
20
brAIDEN
I tell Fairfax to have fresh flowers in Samantha’s office every morning. He places them while we eat breakfast—Samantha, Aiofe, and me.
Then Samantha settles into her first full day of working from home, and I get busy in the sound-proofed basement of the Hare, in downtown Philadelphia. I’m sending a message to Russo, by way of a filleting knife applied to his capo in charge of South Philly drug distribution. The shitehawk lasts longer than I expect—a full twelve hours after I start cutting. That’s probably because of the Crash we pump into his system—the same drug he’s been pushing to middle-school kids. Ordinarily, I won’t touch the stuff, but I’m happy to make an exception today.
Three days later, Russo raids my executive poker game, killing one of my guards and sending another to the hospital, gut-shot.
He beats up the madam at my best massage parlor, leaving her with a broken arm and serious doubts about her chosen profession.
He buys off the customs inspectors on a shipping container of cheap Irish whiskey, sending thousands of gallons of booze down the drain, and impounding my counterfeit Jameson labels.
I hit back—casinos and whorehouses and olive oil imports, blow after blow after blow.
Four weeks of cat-and-mouse gets expensive. Police Commissioner Washington is making a killing, collecting from both of us to look the other way. The Philadelphia Enquirer takes notice of the crime spree, making people start calling for changes in gun laws. Buying off legislators in the state capital is my least favorite way to spend money.
So I’m not paying attention to Samantha the way she deserves. I get reports from Fairfax. I know my wife works long hours. If I’m not in the house, she skips meals. Even when I’m there, she doesn’t take breaks. I know all that, but I’m too busy to do anything about it.
Until one month after my work-from-home rule went into effect.
Samantha doesn’t leave her office until a quarter to midnight. I’m waiting in the shadows of the hallway.
“New rule,” I say.
“Jesus!” She jumps like she’s watching some third-rate horror movie. “I didn’t know you were there.”
“If you left your office before sunset, you’d have seen me.”
Her laugh sounds forced. “Time and lawsuits wait for no man.”
“You work too hard.”
“I work as hard as I need to, to get the job done.”
“From now on, you’ll put in ten hours a day, max.”
She brandishes her laptop. “Let me guess. I should do your work first, and the rest of the freeport clients can go to hell.”
I refuse to be pushed into that argument. “I trust you to set priorities.”
“Well, that’s a lie.”
Again, I grant her the freedom to express herself. I can afford to be generous. I know I’m winning this round.
I hand her the shopping bag I had one of my men drive down from New York. I relied on the same boutique that supplied her wedding gown. They have all her measurements.
She reaches past several sheets of silver tissue paper. When she pulls out the skirt, she looks like she’s never seen one before. “What the hell is this?”
“Consider it an early Valentine’s Day present.”
“Valentine’s Day is tomorrow.”
I resist the urge to check my watch. She might well be wrong, given how late she finished work tonight. Instead, I skip to the part she’s really going to fight. “Starting tomorrow,” I say. “And every night after. At six o’clock, you change from your office clothes into a skirt. That’s the end of your work day. No excuses. No exceptions.”
“I don’t wear skirts,” she says, like she’s teaching me how to add one and one.
“You do now.”
She shakes the garment like spiders might fall from the folds. “And I never wear flowers.”
I repeat myself, knowing it will annoy her. “You do now.”
“They’re pink .”
“Ballet slipper blush, according to Martha Gallagher.”
“Braiden…”
“Samantha.”
“I’m not going to wear this.”
“You will,” I promise. “Because if you forget , I’ll remind you. I’ll interrupt whatever you’re doing at six o’clock and put it on you myself.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
I want her to test my new rule. I want to work the lock on her office door with my master key. I want to stride to her desk while she makes excuses to whomever she has on a conference call. I want to slam her computer closed, to bend her over her chair, to strip her out of her trousers. And I want to watch her face flush when I fuck her after she’s dressed in flowers.
Which reminds me…
“One more thing,” I say. “You won’t wear knickers with this.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“If you do, you’ll be punished.”
“Braiden, that’s absurd. I’ll get cold.”
“I’ll tell Fairfax to raise the heat.”
“It’s not sanitary.”
“I’m not forbidding you to bathe. And I trust you learned how to manage things in the jacks a lifetime ago.”
“Do I have to remind you we aren’t alone in this house? You have staff. There is a child living here.”
“What exactly do you think will happen when you come to dinner in a skirt? Are you afraid I’ll sweep the dishes to the floor and fuck you on the dining room table? Or maybe I’ll crouch beneath the table and eat you out while Fairfax carries food in from the kitchen?”
Actually, either of those sounds like a fine way to spend a meal. I consider ordering Aiofe to be fed dinner in the nursery every night, effective immediately
Samantha, though, is continuing her arguments. I think I regret the day she first applied to law school. “What difference does it make, if I’m wearing a skirt or not? You’ve been gone more nights than I have the past four weeks. We’ve eaten, what, one dinner together? And you were on your phone the entire time.”
“You’re right,” I agree. “I’ve been busy too. But not by choice. And that changes now. Even if I have to go out after dinner, I’ll be home for the meal. It’s the least I can do for my wife.”
She crushes the skirt in her hand. But she seems to have run out of arguments. For now.
I lean over and kiss her on the forehead, taking care to find the patch of tangled white lines from her scars. “You’ll find a dozen more skirts in your closet,” I murmur against her hair. I step back before she can knee me in the bollocks. “If you’d prefer different styles or colors, you may call Gallagher Samson and have them charge more to my account. But there’s a note in your file not to send anything black, white, or gray.”
She stomps down the hall without another word.
I can’t wait to see what happens tomorrow night, whether she follows the new rule or breaks it.
I figure, I win, either way.