Chapter 24
24
SAMANTHA
L ast Friday, Russo lost the Book of Skreen.
This week, he gets his revenge, running me ragged.
On Monday, he requires my presence as he takes delivery of the first shipment destined for his gallery. Other tax haven clients manage loading in without the direct oversight of Diamond Freeport’s General Counsel, but I give in because I think I might see something, evidence in the case I’m building against him.
In the end, though, I only witness several hundred cases of laundry detergent, stacked to the ceiling by hard-working young men. I’m sure the jugs fell off a truck somewhere along the Eastern seaboard, but it’s hardly the type of theft that would put Russo behind bars for a lifetime.
On Wednesday, Russo demands my company again. This time, the shipment is barrels of olive oil. I’m certain the liquid in those drums is nothing but cheap vegetable oil with a bit of green food coloring. But, again, no agricultural fraud will put Russo away for life.
On Friday, Russo keeps me waiting all day, but no shipments make it through the freeport gates.
Russo blames the fuck-up on Independence Day, which falls on Saturday, but I’m certain he’s testing me. Figuring out how much time I’m willing to give him. How long my leash is from Braiden’s controlling hand.
Throughout the week, I remind myself I’m not just doing this for Braiden. I’m doing it for me. I’m destroying Russo because he killed my parents. I’m getting revenge for what he did to Eliza.
The fact that my husband wants his head in a sack and his body at the bottom of the Schuylkill just makes the job a little sweeter.
So far, though, I have nothing to report to Braiden. That makes breakfast a rather tense meal, the Monday after Independence Day.
I enter the dining room, briefcase in hand. Liam waits in the Bentley outside, but I’m willing to uphold house rules, at least to grab a bite of breakfast before we hit the road.
“No,” Braiden says, barely looking up from the first of his newspapers.
“Good morning to you, too,” I say. I pour myself a cup of coffee and grab a piece of toast from the silver rack on the table.
Braiden sets his teacup onto his saucer with the precision of a watchmaker. “You won’t be going to the freeport this morning.”
I glance at Aiofe, who is watching us with the rapt attention most children reserve for video games. If she’s nursing a sugar hang-over from polishing off Fairfax’s July 4 cherry pie, she’s hiding it well.
“I’m already late for a meeting,” I say evenly. I retrieve a peach from the bowl on the sideboard, as if that will appease my over-protective husband.
Braiden takes his phone out of his pocket and taps an already-stored number. After a gap that must cover four or five rings, he says, “Mary, this is Braiden Kelly, calling for Samantha. An emergency has come up at home, and she won’t be able to make it in this morning. Please cancel all of her meetings, and she’ll reschedule at a future date.”
“You controlling bas—!” I only cut off my shriek because Aiofe’s eyes have gone as wide as her plate of eggs. Furious, I collect my briefcase and head for the door. I can set my assistant straight once I’m in the car.
Which is a great plan. I just don’t take into account how quickly Braiden can move when he’s motivated. His hand falls heavily on the front door, slamming it shut before I can slip outside. When I whirl to face him, he uses his body as a cage, capturing me between his arms.
“Let me go!” I shout, not caring anymore if Aiofe overhears. Fairfax either, for that matter.
“No.”
The same one-word dismissal as when I walked into the dining room—no explanation. No justification. No argument.
But this time, he shifts his weight. He moves his hands from the door to my wrists, pinning my arms in place. He rolls his hips, trapping mine against the door. I turn my face to the side.
For just a moment, my concentration is shredded by a gut-punching memory of what we did Saturday night, after our happy-family evening watching fireworks from the back porch, as Ardmore celebrated our country’s independence.
Braiden trails his cat o’ nine tails across my belly… I strain against the leather cuffs keeping me spread-eagled on the bed… A pleading growl rises in my throat…
My cheeks flush as I force away the image. Pressing my thighs together, I concentrate on what I need now. Of course Braiden feels my motion, and he forces more of his weight onto me. My hips turn traitor and rock toward him, needy and desperate, even through my tailored suit.
Braiden’s lips find the exposed line of my jaw. The tip of his tongue ignites my jugular.
I take a deep breath. “I don’t know how long I have before they take my license. I have to go to work today. I need to be at the freeport.”
“For Russo,” Braiden says, like he’s biting into a bar of soap.
“For us .”
“I don’t trust him,” Braiden says.
I cut off a dismayed laugh. “I don’t trust him either. But you agreed… This is what we have to do.”
He shakes his head. “That was before I spent every day last week imagining everything that can go wrong.”
“Nothing will go wrong. Between Liam and freeport security… I’m safe.”
Braiden stares at me for so long I think I’ve lost. He cares more about controlling me than he does about getting vengeance against Russo.
But then he crushes his mouth against mine. His tongue demands entrance as his fingers tangle in my hair. He’s taking, drinking, consuming me like he’s a starving man and I’m a feast.
When we have to breathe, when we’re both gasping like frantic animals, his teeth close on my lip, sharp enough to make me moan. He tightens the bite for just a heartbeat, and then he backs off, touching his forehead to mine.
“Wear your collar when you meet with him,” he says.
Shock stiffens my body. This time it’s my turn to say, “No.”
“Just today,” he says, his thumb tracing my swollen lips.
“I can’t.”
“You won’t.”
“You’ve always said it was only in our bedroom.”
“ You said that. I said you’d get no argument from me if you want to wear it elsewhere. So wear it today. When you’re with Russo.”
It’s the symbol of my submission. The outward expression that Braiden controls me. That I belong to him, and him alone.
Swallowing hard, I imagine the weight of the emerald against my throat. I want to please Braiden. I love him. I want him to be happy.
But he’s asking the impossible.
I speak slowly. “The freeport is business. Not—” I shrug, gesturing helplessly between us. “This.”
He backs away, and the air in the foyer is suddenly so cold I have to clench my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering. “Go,” he says.
I clutch his arm, trying to make things right. We both stare at my fingers. At the gold band he gave me when we married. “I’ll wear the collar tonight,” I say.
He shakes his head.
“I promise,” I say.
He moves toward the center of the foyer.
“I love you.” I’ve said the words before. We both have. But they’ve never sounded so desperate, so heartsore, so raw.
Braiden stops, so I know he heard me. But all he says is, “Get out of here.”
He goes back to the dining room.
I do as he says. I leave. But every step I take out the door, down the steps, to the car, I pray he’ll change his mind and follow me. He doesn’t, though. Not even when the braying paparazzi slow my departure for nearly half an hour.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter.
I tell myself everything will be fine when I get home tonight.
I tell myself…
It doesn’t matter what I say. I don’t believe my own lies.