5. Chapter 5
Fourteen hours and a bad night’s sleep later, Tony was ready to explode.
“Run a check on Peterson’s ex-wife! And I want an update on the trial,” Tony barked, not to anyone in particular.
But his staff knew better than to hesitate.
Immediately, someone responded, “On it!” The clatter of keyboards followed, sharp and fast, a chorus of fingers diving into databases.
Good, more than one analyst had taken on the task.
Tony had information on every person in each house on this street—and for several blocks around it. He protected this neighborhood fiercely, like a mother bear protecting her cubs. No one messed with anyone here.
Except for him, he corrected.
“Bianchi’s defense team just wrapped up,” another analyst called out, his voice pitched over the steady hum of machines.
A ripple of satisfaction moved through the room, but Tony’s expression didn’t change. Sal came in then, empty-handed this time. “What’s going on?”
Tony didn’t look away from the monitors as he explained, “Bianchi’s lawyers finished their defense.
” Enrico Bianchi had been caught several months ago for murder.
He’d shot his second in command, then rolled the guy up in a rug with the murder weapon, with his fingerprints on it, in the rug next to the body.
A rug that had been in Bianchi’s personal office for several years.
“Is he going to get off?” Sal’s tone was sharp, concerned.
Tony flicked him a pointed glance, like he’d just asked if water was wet. Which, in a way, he had.
“Sorry,” Sal muttered, running a hand over his jaw to cover up his chuckle. “I should have known you’d make sure my father-in-law couldn’t wiggle out of the consequences of what he’d done.”
“Actually, I didn’t have to do anything, this time.
” He grunted when a news reporter appeared on one of the monitors, the tag line at the bottom of the screen showing a report about the Bianchi defense team finishing their portion of the trial.
“The evidence was pretty overwhelming,” Tony pointed out.
“And Bianchi didn’t have enough money left to mess with the jury or the witnesses this time. ”
“But you made sure that it didn’t happen.” Not a question.
Tony grunted, a non-answer that was answer enough, then tried to redirect.
“The factory in France is still having issues. Cambodia looks solid as a replacement. The staff there are much more reliable.” He shook his head to help him refocus on business.
“Mark Meyers proposed a deal that clears out the bottleneck we discussed last week.”
“Meyers from Florida?”
Tony shook his head, still watching the monitors, gathering information even as he conversed with Sal. “No, that’s Joe Meyers. This is Mark Meyers, representative from…that other state,” he replied vaguely.
Sal raised a brow. “When did you cultivate him as a source?”
Tony smiled grimly . “When one of the hotel cameras in D.C. caught him snorting a line of cocaine off a hooker’s nipple.”
Sal groaned. “When will they ever learn?”
“Clearly not today,” Tony muttered. But even as the banter flowed, his concentration snagged.
His hand flexed at his side, remembering the velvety softness of Naomi’s smaller hand in his, the way her fingertips had ghosted over his scars.
That moment had replayed in his head like a glitching video feed—her eyes, her whispered words, her warmth.
He’d never been distracted during a business conversation before.
Not once. And now, he was stumbling over names and factory locations, like some kid with his first crush.
Then movement caught his eye on the monitors—Naomi was back in the park across the street. She hadn’t brought the boys out to the playground since the sandbox incident. Now, she held both of their hands firmly, anchoring them before they could bolt toward the group of kids already playing.
She bent down, her ponytail sliding over her shoulder, and Tony’s focus narrowed immediately. Her shirt shifted against her curves as she knelt, her breasts more visible with the movement, the neckline teasingly dropping just a little. Damn, she was beautiful.
His lips twitched, an unconscious smile dancing across his face as he watched her flip her ponytail back with a flick of impatience. Four seconds, he counted silently. That’s how long her patience lasted for that silky, heavy hair brushing her cheek.
The boys nodded politely to her directions, but even through the monitors Tony caught the malicious glint in the older one’s eyes. Trouble was brewing.
With a heavy sigh, Tony turned toward the door. “I need to have a talk with someone,” he said, already moving, his tone sharper than he intended. He left the security department, the phantom memory of Naomi’s touch burning hotter now that the object of his thoughts was in view.
He emerged moments later at the front of the house—not Sal’s house, but his own, next door.
A network of underground tunnels connected the four properties: Sal’s house, the security hub with training rooms and guard quarters, and Tony’s own residence.
He’d also bought up all of the houses nearby as a security caution.
And because nosy neighbors were obnoxious.
But this house, it was his domain. His sanctuary. True, it was nearly empty, but it was also silent and private, where he could shut the world out.
Most of his days were spent in the house that contained the security room, running operations and keeping the organization’s security airtight.
His other offices, scattered across Chicago, handled more business matters, both clandestine and legitimate.
But here, in this neighborhood, Tony kept order personally.
And right now, that peace was being disrupted by a five-year-old demon who thought bullying was a sport.
Naomi had tried, Tony knew. But the beautiful nanny couldn’t fully counteract the boys’ father’s poison.
Their behavior always worsened after a weekend with him, the little tykes swaggering with cruel bravado they clearly picked up at home.
Thankfully, Tom Peterson preferred his mistress in the city or one of the clubs Sal and Tony owned—leaving his sons in Naomi’s or the evening nanny’s care most of the time.
Still, the father’s influence lingered, like a stubborn stain. Naomi couldn’t negate it on the first day back from a weekend.
But Tony could.
Crossing the street, he came to stand beside her while the boys headed to the swingset.
She startled, her hand jerking slightly at his sudden presence—but she didn’t move away.
In fact, she leaned almost imperceptibly closer, as though her body betrayed her before her mind caught up.
Tony noticed. Of course he noticed. He was hyper-aware of everything about her—the brush of her ponytail against her cheek, the faint scent of clean soap and warm skin, the way her soft lips parted just slightly as if she’d forgotten to breathe.
“Kids okay?” His voice rumbled, deeper than necessary, and his arms folded across his broad chest in a gesture that drew her gaze to the flex of his muscles.
He felt her swallow beside him, the subtle shift in her breathing giving away how tightly wound she was.
Tension rolled off her in waves, sharp and alive, and he acknowledged it without glancing her way.
If he looked down, if he let himself see those wide, worried eyes, he might forget what he was here to do.
His focus stayed on the boys. The little bullies were huddled together, every twitch of their shoulders spelling trouble. He knew the signs. He’d seen grown men wear the same expression before they made a move that would, inevitably, ruin their lives.
They stood side by side in taut silence, waiting. Tony didn’t need words to know Naomi sensed it too.
Then it came, the older one, Jacob, revealed a sly grin that cut across his face like a signal flare.
“No!” Naomi’s voice cracked the air, sharp and urgent. She’d recognized the cue at the same moment he had.
Tony’s mouth tightened, his jaw hardening into a grim line. “Let me handle this,” he muttered, low and lethal. His anger wasn’t loud, didn’t need to be. He hated bullies. Always had. Especially ones being molded into little replicas of their pathetic excuse for a father.
He strode forward with lethal calm, every step radiating authority. Naomi’s breath caught at the sheer power in his movements. The boys froze as his shadow fell over them, their earlier bravado evaporating.
Tony planted his feet at the base of the tall play structure, glaring up at the older boy. “We need to talk,” he said. His gaze cut to the younger. “You too.” Then he jerked his chin toward the left side of the playground. “Now.”
The boys hesitated for only a second. But one look into Tony’s dark eyes, sharp and merciless, and they knew better.
They glanced at Naomi, hoping for rescue, but her expression—an odd mix of encouragement and warning—offered no reprieve.
Shoulders slumped, they climbed down and trudged toward the designated spot.
“March!” Tony ordered when Mark leaned a little into Jacob, clearly attempting some whispered rebellion.
His command cracked across the playground, sharp and absolute. The boys froze mid-step, their bravado collapsing in an instant. They knew better than to test him, even if they couldn’t explain why. Slowly, sullenly, they obeyed, trudging forward in silence.
Tony’s eyes stayed on them, but his awareness stretched sideways, to the woman standing several feet away.
He didn’t have to look at her to know she’d gone still, could feel the tremor in the air between them.
She wasn’t afraid of him—not in the way most people were.
What she felt was something else, sharper, charged.
He’d caught the tiny hitch of her breath, the faint shift of her weight, like her body couldn’t decide whether to step closer or back away.
Damn woman. She didn’t belong anywhere near him, yet he could sense her inching toward the danger, even as she recognized it. That awareness sparked through his own veins, a hum of heat he hadn’t felt in a long time.
He forced his gaze back to the boys, jaw tight. Better to focus on the devils he could correct than the woman who made his blood stir in ways it shouldn’t.