Chapter 37 War
Chapter thirty-seven
War
Iwake her with sugar.
A cupcake, the kind she likes from Smash and Sugar. Perfect swirl of frosting, edible gold flecks on top. A single candle burning down, flame small and steady in the dim of our bedroom.
She blinks awake, lashes fluttering, confusion turning to warmth when she sees me standing there with it.
“Happy birthday, my sweet girl,” I say softly, setting the plate on the nightstand so I can lean in and press kisses across her face. Her temple. Her cheek. Her lips.
She laughs softly, voice still heavy with sleep. “War…”
“Blow it out,” I say against her mouth.
She sits up, hair mussed and perfect, and leans over the candle. Her lips part, a breath, and the flame snuffs out in smoke.
I take the plate back, set it aside, and tip her chin up. “What’d you wish for?”
Her smile tilts, sly and secret. “If I tell you, it won’t come true.”
I chuckle, low in my chest. “Doesn’t matter. You’ll get it anyway. Whatever it is.” My thumb strokes along her jaw, steady, reverent. “Because I’ll make sure you get whatever you want for the rest of your life.”
Her eyes soften, and something in my chest pulls taut.
I’ve had everything. Power. Money. Sky-high glass towers with my name on them. But nothing—nothing, has ever filled me like this woman curled in my bed, candle smoke still hanging in the air between us.
I've had women in my bed, in my head, but never like this. Never in the space between my heartbeats.
She’s perfect.
And for the first time in my life, so is everything else.
My heart has never felt this full.
Life has never felt this good.
She swings her legs out of bed, stretching with a sleepy sigh, and pads toward the bathroom.
I pull open the closet, and slide a hanger free, laying her blouse across the duvet, smoothing the fabric flat with my palm.
Her skirt follows. Stockings. The soft click of her heels as I set them neatly at the foot of the bed.
Behind me, the sink starts running. The muted scrape of her toothbrush against her teeth. I picture her in the mirror, mouth full of foam, hair mussed from sleep, and my chest tightens.
“We’ll leave work early,” I call, my voice carrying through the sound of running water. “Two instead of four. Come back here, get ready, and I’m taking you out for the best evening.”
The faucet clicks off. Silence. Then the faint swish of the brush against porcelain, the metallic clang of it being set down.
I straighten the skirt with a precise tug, fingers dragging across the fabric like every crease offends me.
I chuckle under my breath, thinking of the theater at the estate. Staff already prepped, the screen queued with the little film we made. Maybe we’ll make another. I want her to watch herself, watch that perfect face go soft and desperate when I’m deep inside her.
“War…”
Her voice pulls me out of the thought.
She’s leaning in the doorway, brushing her hair, the strands catching the light as they fall over her shoulder. Her eyes are cautious, soft.
“I don’t want a big thing tonight,” she says. “Just us. No fancy restaurant, no—”
I cross the room in three strides, catch her wrist before she can lower the brush, and hush her with a kiss. Slow. Sure. My mouth sealing over hers until the rest of her protest dissolves into a sigh against my lips.
When I pull back, I press my forehead to hers, my hand sliding down to rest against the dip of her waist.
“Get dressed, sweet girl. We’ll work, and then tonight is just us. Me celebrating another year of the most beautiful woman being alive.”
She rolls her eyes, but the pink rising in her cheeks betrays her. She tries to turn back, but I catch her chin, make her look at me.
“Okay,” she murmurs, cheeks warm, lips curved as she trails her fingers down the hard line of my jaw. The touch is light, but it jolts through me like a live wire. My pulse kicks, brutal and fast.
“Thank you. I love you.”
The words are soft. Casual. Like she doesn’t know they gut me every time.
I swallow, kiss her again, slower this time, tasting toothpaste and her warmth, and whisper against her mouth:
“I love you too, Olivia Baker.”
And it’s the truest thing I’ve ever said.
I trail my fingers down her arm slowly and glance over at the skirt I laid out.
It’s thin.
Too thin.
My jaw tightens.
“I told you,” she says with a knowing smirk, watching me notice. “The car’s warm. I’ll be fine.”
“No,” I mutter, already turning toward the drawer. “You’re wearing fleece-lined stockings today.”
“War—”
“No arguments, Olivia.” I toss them onto the bed beside the outfit. “You insist on wearing skirts even in the dead of winter when you have brand-new fitted trousers. So if you won’t dress warm, I’ll do it for you.”
She groans, flopping back onto the mattress dramatically. “You’re so bossy.”
I arch a brow. “And you’re going to tell me you’re not cold? I see everything Olivia.”
She mumbles something into the comforter that sounds suspiciously like “You’re lucky I love you.”
I lean down, kiss the crown of her head, then whisper against her hair, “I am. So lucky. And I’ll keep you warm however I have to.”
***
The door bursts open without a knock.
I don’t flinch.
Wesley’s the only one who does that.
Even my Olivia knocks once before opening the door.
He strides in, eyes lit up like I’ve never seen, suit rumpled like he’s been pacing half the city instead of sitting behind a desk.
“The mob is fucking crazy!” he blurts.
A laugh rumbles in my chest, low and amused.
“Still spending time with the Amatos?”
He shakes his head, pacing across the rug before spinning on his heel to face me.
“You have no idea. I helped the mob.”
I arch a brow.
“We don’t get involved in that shit. You want to smear our name all over the media in blood and concrete?”
“Relax.” Wesley exhales hard and drops into the chair across from me, running a hand through his hair like he doesn’t know what to do with the energy crackling off him.
“I helped save Santo Amato’s wife.”
That gets my attention.
I lean back, steepling my hands.
“You?”
“Yes, me.” His chin lifts, indignant. “Don’t look at me like that.”
I can’t help it; a bark of laughter breaks out of me. “You held a gun?”
He scoffs, straightening his tie like he’s about to give a boardroom pitch.
“No. I figured out who was after her. I was an intricate part.”
“Congratulations?” I drawl.
He leans forward, hands braced on his knees, eyes sparking.
“It has me thinking—”
“No.”
My tone sharpens, final.
“We won’t work with them. We won’t sell to them. And we sure as fuck won’t build our own criminal empire if that’s where you’re going.”
Wesley shakes his head quickly.
“Not that. Just… maybe they aren’t all that bad.”
My jaw ticks.
He’s playing with fire, and he doesn’t even see it.
I swivel my screen toward him.
One click brings up the article I’ve been tracking.
“The mayor’s son, Jude Olsen, is missing. Last anyone heard, he went back to Seattle. Supposed to be back on campus.”
Another click.
“He hasn’t shown up. His last notable appearance?”
Click.
“A gala with Vasilisa Popov… now known as Vasilisa—”
Wesley’s mouth curves. “Amato.”
“Exactly.”
I level him with a stare.
“Do not get involved with them, Wesley. Not their games. Not their wars. Not their women. I don’t care how bright it looks when you’re standing in the dark. You step into their world, you won’t walk out.”
He exhales, sinking back in the chair, some of the fire dimming, but not gone.
Wesley’s always been the level one.
Steady where I’m sharp.
Controlled where Wilder’s reckless.
But now…
The Amatos lit something in him.
Or maybe they’re weaving their webs around him, pulling threads I can’t see.
And that worries me more than I’ll admit.