14. Vian #2
After I change, we board the jet, and she takes the seat next to me. It’s a minimal improvement, but it feeds my hope that we’re moving in the right direction.
Halfway turned to me, she rests her hand on her cheek. “I want to know everything. From the start. Leave nothing out.”
“We might need more than a one-hour flight.”
She gestures between us. “You said date. Well, make it several.”
I want to ask her why the sudden change, but knowing her, she needs time to accept things for herself first. So instead, I recount my story for the second time.
She seeks my eyes, riveted, and I catch the older version of her gazing back at me as if I could do no wrong, pouring icy water over my head and causing a shiver.
With her, I have no fucking idea what I am doing—no guide to lead me, just pure need for her.
Two universal truths dictate my life: I would die for her, and I live for her.
After we land, the driver takes her to the penthouse, and I head to the meeting place. Inside the conference room, my uncle, followed by the leaders of the other four families, sit around the table.
“What are you going to do with the gang encroaching our territory?” the eldest says.
Lew and I have a long-lasting partnership. Over decades, the Bratva-versus-Mafia war between us ensured losses that weren’t feasible. So, we cohabitate, so to speak, but any other players are game.
I would have taken care of the problem by now, but my wife shifted my priorities.
I cast him an intent stare, not showing a sign of weakness. “Tonight.”
He nods my way, the anger sliding off his face.
“How is Zara Monroe?” Paolo snickers.
The only reason he made it to the table is his father’s untimely death, leaving me to deal with him. He’s nothing more than an arrogant, worthless prick, and courtesy of his father, he knows more than he should.
Staring him down, I grab my knife from inside my suit pocket and throw it at him in one fluid move.
The blade slices his earlobe, and the bloody tip embeds itself in the chair behind him.
Everything happens so fast, the shock morphing into a wail as he realizes what happened, the color draining from his face.
“It’s your first and last warning.”
Pure hatred stares back at me as he plucks the handkerchief from his suit pocket with jerky movements. He cradles his injured ear, the blood seeping through the fabric and dripping onto his suit.
The others shake their heads at him. It’s a secret I would die for. It’s a secret I’ve killed for. It’s one secret I would eradicate entire bloodlines to make sure is never revealed.
I sweep my gaze across the room. “Anything else?”
“Congratulations on your marriage, boss.”
One after the other trickles out until I remain with my uncle.
“He’s a miserable cokehead,” he sighs, heavy bags lining his eyes. His complexion is fairer, and he appears tiny behind his suit.
I know better than to inquire about his health, so instead I say, “That’s what I fear. They get loose lips.”
“His son is different.”
My chest tightens inside my jacket, and I slip it off, curling and uncurling my hands at my sides. “One more slip, and I will replace him.”
“Only a handful of people know. Calm down. No one will tell.”
I nod, and glancing at my watch, I realize I promised my wife a date so I stand up and snatch my jacket.
Once she is safely tucked into bed, I can take care of the intruders.
The trait I admire but still bamboozles me is human ambition. It doesn’t matter how many have lost their lives, time, sanity, or money. Once people focus on a goal, they must achieve it. But my kingdom is not for sale. It’s ripe but impossible to conquer.
On my way to my car, my phone rings, and I pick up to answer Lew, the Russian head of the Chicago Bratva. I could almost respect the fucker if I didn’t have to constantly stay on alert. He’s a psycho with no single fear or weakness.
“Do we take care of the cockroaches together in a display of come-for-one, come-for-both type of shit that keeps people away from Chicago?”
“Next one is yours,” I offer, needing to expel some of my restless anxiety.
“You sound like you need the distraction, even if I’ve heard congratulations are in order. I still debate if you’re the luckiest or unluckiest man in our world.”
“I don’t know what you think you might know,” I grit out.
“Don’t insult me,” he says, his voice turning to gravel.
I hang up, the weight of the past and the secrets piling up as if they might collar my neck and drag me to my knees.
My troubles vanish the moment I walk inside the penthouse and find Zara dressed in a figure-hugging dress made to undo me.
“Fuck,” I say as the sight of her robs me of any coherent thoughts.
She sashays toward me and glides a delicate finger down my torso. “Woo me, husband, and it might come off tonight.”
I click my tongue, tsking. “Such a cruel woman, teasing me like that.”
“Am I?” She lifts a brow, confirming she’s in a playful mood.
I grab the back of her neck, pulling her flush to me. Her palms land on my chest, making my heart beat out of cadence, erratic just like my desire. “Fuck, only you could dangle the possibility in my face and make me a goner.”
“Good.”
She’s cruel indeed. And I am a sucker for her.