45. ANTONIO #2
"Because right now, you said this is time sensitive?"
The thought that this incredible creature is mine swells my chest. My cock is hard as a rock, and the need to reclaim what's mine is strong, but she's right. Timing is everything. And this is not the time to bend her over the desk, no matter how great the temptation.
"Do you have a printer?" Her question grounds me enough to compose myself.
I point to the bookshelf where a state-of-the-art printer is stationed.
She prints the list of names of the hotel employees.
Anticipating what she wants, I walk to the printer and bring the ten sheets to her.
She starts typing in the first name.
"What are you trying to find?"
"Well, whoever killed that juror must have a criminal record," she mumbles with a pen between her teeth.
"What makes you think that?" I crease my eyebrows, not following.
She sends a duh look at me, making me chuckle. Nobody has ever duh-ed me before, nobody would dare, because they would find themselves six feet under. Not my fearless Scarlet, though; she knows I would never hurt her. I'd swallow a grenade before that happens.
"People don't just kill people," she lectures me. "I mean, I don't think I could just go and stab someone, even if… I was told my dad's life was at stake."
"What about mine?" I challenge.
She thinks it over. "Okay, so you might have a point.
I might stab someone if your life was at stake, but," she holds up a finger before I can enjoy my win, "I might stab someone, once, maybe twice, but not…
" she changes tabs and reads through the article, "…
eight times." She shakes her head. "No way. "
She holds up a second finger, leaving me completely mesmerized by her logic. "Two, I would be a mess afterward. I mean, I'd be covered in blood from head to toe, right?"
I nod because I want to see how far her analytical mind will take her. I've already considered her points, but I lacked the ability to get into NCIC. She's also raising some interesting civilian points—a new perspective for me.
"Even if I wasn't caught red-handed, so to speak, the likelihood of my spilling who ordered me to do this is far greater than for an experienced criminal, wouldn't you say?"
"It's refreshing to have the viewpoint of a non-criminal." I compliment.
She isn't done. "Three, even if by some miracle I wasn't caught red-handed ," again, she makes quotation marks around the word red-handed, and I'm sure she intended a little pun here. "I would instantly break during an interview."
"Good to know." I wink at her.
She slaps my arm and amends, "Well, I might be getting better at that…"
I let it go because I do see her points.
While Scarlet searches on my laptop, I make myself comfortable on the couch and browse through my phone.
There are a thousand things I should be doing right now.
My email is filled with unread notifications, so is my text app, but I'm busy finding out everything there is to know about pregnancy and pregnant women.
Not even an hour later, the new computer with not two but five monitors arrives, and Scarlet squeals in delight. "This will make research so much faster."
The technicians set up the computer while Scarlet and I get something to eat in the kitchen, where I make sure to set up a healthy lunch for her.
I bypass the wine we would usually have, as well as the shrimp cocktail Fredo created earlier knowing it was one of Scarlet's favorites.
No Brie or Camembert, either. Shit, is there anything she can eat?
Surreptitiously, I pull out my phone. Ah, there is a salad with eggs.
Now I just need to find some bread…I'll have to make a note for Fredo to provide more of certain foods; what's in here now is unacceptable.
"I'm starving," Scarlet complains from where she sits by the counter. I grin. Is there anything better in the world than feeding my—maybe—pregnant wife? I don't think so.
She looks at me, surprised when I deposit the salads and bread on the table, and a hint of insecurity rushes over her face.
"What's wrong?" I ask, reminding myself to ask Fredo what he puts into the salad dressing.
"Uhm," she blushes slightly, then moves her hand over her still flat stomach, "do you think I'm getting fat?"
Oh, passerotta, I can't wait to see you round with my baby . "No, why?"
"We don't usually eat salad for lunch," she scrunches up her nose adorably, and I realize that, while I’m still not happy she's keeping this big secret from me, there is a lot of amusement to be had from it.
Just like I enjoy messing with Gigi's and Vito's heads with their little secret , Scarlet is about to learn the consequences of keeping things from me.
In my mind, I roll up my sleeves. Yes, this will be entertaining.
"Absolutely not, passerotta. This is just a precaution because of your stomach… condition. I don't want you to get sick again." I reply with a smirk. Two can play this game, and she'll soon learn that she challenged a master.
"I don’t think salad is that good for my stomach," she pushes the fork through the greens, spearing a tomato.
"I'll tell Fredo to get some other food, but that's the best I could come up with right now," I explain, watching her squirm.
Scarlet always has a healthy appetite, watching her pick listlessly at her salad makes me almost feel bad for her, but then my stomach grumbles, reminding me that I'm a victim here, too.
A little while later, we sit companionably, but still hungry, by my desk; I with a laptop, and she barely visible behind the five screens. We split the list to make it faster.
I could have outsourced this, but honestly, working with her like this does something to me. Her calm, efficient presence is like a soothing balm for my usually flaring temper.
"Here, this guy, Frederico Manisol," she shouts triumphantly after another hour. "He's been in and out of jail, drugs, bank robbery, assault with a deadly weapon, and, listen to this, nearly killing his girlfriend after he stabbed her."
My little sleuth is right. That sounds like the perfect suspect.
"How did he get hired at that hotel?" I wonder. This isn't the first time this particular hotel has housed a jury or important witnesses. I've done my homework too.
"Well," I love the way her forehead creases, how she chews on the poor innocent pencil as her fingers hack at the keyboard as if stabbing it.
"Hah!" She exclaims.
Curiously, I walk over to her. An Instagram account is up. "See here, his friends and family ?"
I nod, and then my eyes catch on a name, Bart Matthews, HR manager of—amply named— Hotel Justice .
I whistle quietly. "Passerotta, I think you missed your calling."
Her melodious giggle is enough to give me another hardon.
"Now what?" She swivels in her chair, finally letting go of the pencil.
"Now, I’ll give that name to Vito and let him do his magic while I…" I pick her up, "will do mine."
"Which is?" She wants to know, nibbling on my earlobe.
"Fuck you until you're delirious with pleasure."
"Oh darling," she purrs, "so romantic."
We probably should have just locked the office door because walking up the stairs is becoming harder with each step as my dick grows in my pants.