23. Chapter 23
Tom groaned, slumped in the leather chair behind his desk, a bag of half-frozen peas pressed gingerly against his swollen groin. The ache radiated upward into his gut, sharp and unrelenting, and every sip of bourbon only dulled the edge for a moment before the pain flared back to life.
“Stupid bitch,” he muttered, his voice slurred in a half-growl, half-whine. He tipped the glass back, gulping down another burn of liquor. “Fightin’ dirty like that. Should’ve just laid back and enjoyed what I wanted to give her. Not like she isn’t spreadin’ for that Italian bastard anyway.”
The words echoed in the empty office, bitter and sour. He winced, shifting the peas, biting back another groan as the cold pressed into his bruised flesh.
Upstairs, the creak of small footsteps hit his ears, followed by the hesitant voices of his boys, then their obnoxious feet scrambling down the stairway. He really needed to get some carpeting on those damn stairs!
“Daddy?” Jacob called out, poking his head through the open office door. “Where’s Naomi?” His voice was soft, uncertain, and it irritated Tom even more.
Tom glared toward the door, bourbon sloshing over the rim of his glass. “Get out!” he roared. “Out of my office!”
The boys scrambled, their retreating footsteps clattering down the hall, the sound of their laughter and chatter from earlier gone. Silence returned, broken only by the drip of condensation from the pea bag and Tom’s ragged breathing.
Then the doorbell rang.
Tom flinched. “Maria!” he barked, waiting for the housekeeper’s footsteps. None came. He shifted the peas again, hissing at the stab of pain. “Maria! Answer the damn door!”
The bell rang again. Louder. Longer.
Tom slammed the bag of peas down on the desk, scattering frost and condensation across the wood. Muttering curses, he staggered to his feet, adjusting his slacks and nearly doubling over from the pain in his groin. He shuffled through the hall, his irritation mounting with every painful step.
When he yanked the door open, his scowl froze on his face.
Melissa stood there. His ex-wife. Damn, he’d thought that he’d finally destroyed that bitch. But here she was, standing tall and confident. Where the hell was the defeated woman who had been fired and kicked out of her home? He’d liked that woman! She’d been a masterpiece of manipulation!
Gone was her former defeat. Right now, her expression was tight, her chin lifted in brittle defiance. But before he could spit out a single insult, he caught sight of who stood behind her.
Tony Mancini. Broad, towering, dark-eyed, with two men flanking him, both of whom radiated the kind of menace that clung to predators. They weren’t smiling. They didn’t need to.
Melissa brushed past Tom without hesitation, her arms opening wide as the boys rushed to her, clinging to her. “Momma!” Mark and Jacob called out in unison. “You’re back!”
“I’m here, my little loves!” Melissa assured them, hugging them close. “I’m here,” this time in a desperate whisper as she closed her eyes, savoring the long-awaited hug.
Then she stood, gathering her fallen purse. “Come on, sweethearts,” she said softly, stroking their hair. “We’re going to the playground.” Her voice broke a little, but she masked it with a smile for her children.
“Melissa!” Tom barked, spinning around. “Get the hell out of my house! You don’t have the right—”
His tirade cut off as Tony pressed a hand to his chest, shoving him backward into the foyer. Melissa herded her boys out of the house, asking her sons about their day, about their studies, and anything else to distract them from what was happening in the foyer.
“You can’t…!” Tom tried again, knowing that the two boys were his only protection against what the three angry men were about to do to him. He didn’t know the details. He just knew it was going to be painful.
They walked in, uninvited. Tom tried to slam the door on them, but Tony put a hand against the door and pushed it back open, glaring Tom down.
The two other men followed, closing the door with a quiet click that sounded more ominous than any slam.
Tony pulled his phone from his pocket, speaking without taking his eyes off Tom. “Is everyone else out?”
Lizzy’s voice came sharp through the speaker. “The house is empty other than the four of you, boss.”
“Shut off the video feed,” Tony ordered.
“Done.”
Tom’s face paled. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?
” he sputtered, trying to pull his voice together to sound more confident, but it cracked, going high-pitched in the middle of his demand.
He jabbed a finger at Melissa’s retreating figure.
“She can’t be here! And you—you’re trespassing!
You get the hell out of my house right now or I’ll—”
Tony rolled his shoulders, the muscles of his arms bulging as he stepped closer. The move was subtle, deliberate, and it made Tom squeal like a trapped animal. He stumbled back, his spine pressing against the wall.
“I’ll call the police!” Tom shrieked, scrambling for his phone. “I’ll—I’ll have you all arrested!”
One of Tony’s men snorted, amused, but Tony didn’t crack a smile. His eyes stayed locked on Tom, unreadable, dark with something far more terrifying than rage.
Tom swallowed hard, his bravado withering under that stare. His voice dropped to a whimper, a pathetic sound, even to his own ears.
Tony flexed his fists once, the leather of his gloves creaking.
And Tom Peterson, empire-builder, self-proclaimed family man, crumpled down onto his own carpet, whimpering like a child.