Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
For the millionth time that night, Gideon rolled over on a bed that may have cost him ten grand but felt like cardboard on a bench. The space beside him seemed empty of all warmth, and was devoid of the fresh scent of vanilla and sugar and her.
The beast inside him whimpered, his head tucked into his paws, his eyes drooping with sorrow—and the man was fairing no better.
She should have been home by now, her tantrum over, lying beside him, cuddled up into his side, sharing body heat, waiting with bated breath for him to reach over, pull her into his arms, and kiss her in that spot just below her ear that always made her shudder with pleasure.
It wasn’t a tantrum; she’s not going to get over it. You hurt her, and she might never come back.
But he couldn’t fathom that. What would a life look like without Kendra?
She just needed time…space...but to what end? She still had to come home, back to him. They were married, their names both scrawled on the marriage certificate, both their names etched into the prenup, one that said things Kendra hadn’t even bothered to read.
She was too trusting. Too na?ve. Too starved for the family she’d been denied her whole life.
And he’d taken advantage of that.
And so did Mancini….
His gaze dropped to the vanity across the large master suite, where Kendra would sit and doll herself for this gala or that charity dinner, taking great care to make herself into the image of the perfect wife to Gideon Maddox.
But she hadn’t needed makeup to do that, did she?
He missed her.
He missed his wife.
And it was his own damn fault.
He could have dealt with the Mancini bullshit without ever dropping Kendra into it, but he’d hesitated, determined to hold his true power close to his chest—the power player, the king of all, the smartest, most dangerous man in the room.
But in that office, with Isabella standing there, and with Adolfo Mancini on the phone, he’d allowed his pride, his ego, to hold fast.
He told himself that it wasn’t the time to show the true extent of the Maddox empire, that he needed Mancini to remain in his little bubble where he thought he held all the power, but was really a rat in the sewer of Gideon Maddox’s kingdom.
He thought he would triumph that morning, that Isabella would leave disappointed and Adolfo would be pissed but placated, but that wasn’t what happened…and his wife had paid the price.
The phone rang, and Isabella smirked—she knew what was coming even when he didn’t.
The first red flag appeared.
He held her gaze, pouring every ounce of displeasure into that look, and she had the grace to flinch. She was far too confident for someone who was even in the building at his leisure.
I should have banned her years ago; would have saved me the trouble of her popping in whenever the fuck she wants.
Gideon answered after the fourth ring; any desire to be accommodating quickly dissipating.
Adolfo Mancini’s thick Jersey accent filled the other line, “Took you long enough, Maddox. My time is fucking money, and I don’t want to waste either of those things on a man who failed me more times than I can count.”
His time was money…. The man didn’t make more than twenty million a year, according to Logan’s reports, which was utterly laughable compared to the four billion Gideon had amassed the year before.
If anyone was wasting anyone’s time it was Mancini who was, not for the first time, trying to be the big dog in the fight.
A fight he lost over and over because Gideon couldn’t be intimidated by a man who depended on Maddox businesses to keep himself out of prison or off the bottom of the Hudson.
Mancini continued, not knowing he’d just pulled the pin on a grenade with his name on it.
“You better damn well explain how you let the photo get out, and I want some motherfucking compensation—and I’m not talking about money here, Maddox; I want to see you bleed.”
Stiffening, his gaze still on Isabella who’d begun a slow walk through his office, taking in the view, the furniture, the art, and the man behind the desk like she owned it all.
“Mancini,” Gideon began, his voice hard as iron and just as cold, “I know you’ve already received the report, and I know that you know it was all well-manufactured bullshit.
Mancini huffed, but Gideon continued, “AI is the newest and most dangerous technology, and guarding against it was meant to be difficult—”
“So you’re saying that you’ll be of no use to me—”
Growling, Gideon interjected, his patience as thin as a hair, “What I’m saying, Mancini, is that you need to realize that whoever set this up knew that you would react, they knew you would call me to the mattresses, and that you’d demand compensation.
Across the office, her back to him as she stared at a framed photo of him and Kendra at last year’s Maddox Media Winter Gala, Isabella tensed, her fake nonchalance slipping a fraction.
“What the fuck are you talking about, Maddox?” Mancini demanded, spluttering like an overtired toddler.
“What I’m saying is is that someone who knows you well staged the whole thing, hoping to plant a wedge between us, and hoping that you’d demand something from me, something they are hoping I’ll give.”
Mancini grunted, then snarled, “You’re full of shit, boy—no one pulls one over on Adolfo Mancini!”
Gideon wanted to laugh, to tell the man he was just the mummified remains of what was once the Tempesta Familia Underboss, holding onto the illusion of power simply because the Don hadn’t made his move yet.
How did Gideon Maddox know what Adolfo Mancini did not? Because Gideon Maddox was the fucking god of Manhattan, and there wasn't a thing he didn’t know.
Except where his wife went.
Ignoring the pang of unease from that reminder, he got right down to it.
Both enraged and bored with the conversation, Gideon, still holding his cards close to his chest, decided to let things play out.
“What is it you want from me in compensation, Mancini?”
Without a single moment of hesitation, the older man replied, “Isabella knows. Do what she says, and we’ll call it even—but, Maddox, this better never happen again. The next time you fail me, you’ll lose more than just a few empty vows.”
The pompous asshole hung up before Gideon could wrap his mind around the man’s last words.
Lose more than just a few empty vows? What the fuck did that mean?
An alarm bell shrilled in his mind.
Isabella, a demon summoned by some curse cast upon him, stepped up to the desk, her smirk in place once more.
“Done talking to Daddy?” she purred, her blue eyes hooded. “I guess that means you owe me an answer, doesn’t it?”
Another red flag. Another alarm bell.
“Answer to what?” Gideon asked, not bothering to hide the disinterest in his voice. He sat in his desk chair and leaned back, looking for all the world like the titan peering down his nose at a witless, worthless mortal.
Her ruby red lips pinched, her displeasure at his indifference showing on her face.
“The current Mrs. Maddox didn’t read the prenup, did she?” Isabella purred, the question ringing all the alarm bells in his mind.
What the fuck did Isabella know?
Only his lawyer, his wife, and his close family knew about the prenup, and even then no one talked about it.
“What does my wife have to do with you, Isabella?” he asked, his tone clipped, edging on dangerous, but that only seemed to excite her.
Her lips curled, her eyes dancing with malice, she replied, “You’re going to divorce Kendra, you’re going to marry me, I am going to give you the baby she couldn’t, and you will treat me like the queen I was born to be—I will rule this city by your side with my father’s support and the Tempesta name at your back. ”
Rage, bright and violent, tore through him. He shot to his feet, rounding the desk in a blink, and had Isabella’s throat in his hands faster than he could think.
Her eyes wide, her face pale, her growled down at her, “You had better keep my wife’s name out of your mouth, bitch.”
Color quickly flooded her cheeks as she clawed at his hands.
“Let me go, Gideon—you heard Daddy; you have to do what I say, or you’ll have the Tempesta Familia to deal with.”
Gideon didn’t loosen his grip an iota as he chuckled darkly, the sound like the Void had opened in his soul.
“You think you can threaten me?”
Her claws dung into the sleeve of his suit coat, her nails barely cutting through the thick, well-made fabric.
She choked out, “You had one job, Gideon, and you failed—that means you owe my father—”
He spat, “I don’t owe your father shit, and even if I did, what makes either of you think I’d divorce my wife and marry you?”
She was turning whiter by the second, and because he didn’t have the patience nor the desire to endure a murder trial, he released her, pushing her away from him before he changed his mind and snapped her neck.
She coughed, holding her throat as she stared at him, belligerence and—fuck—desire in her blazing blue eyes.
This woman was twisted as hell.
When she could draw a full breath, she supplied, “The prenup.”
Gideon narrowed his eyes at her. “What does that have to do with you?” And how did you even learn about it? That was a question he’d have to ask Logan once he kicked the Mancini bitch out of his building.
“It’s been almost three years, Gideon, and she hasn’t given you a child. That means you can divorce her, she gets nothing, and then you and I can join forces—I would be a much better partner for you, mi amore,” she said, her voice an attempt at sultry that only left him annoyed.
Fighting the urge to sigh at her like she was a clueless puppy, he replied, “That clause only works if I choose to divorce her, Isabella—”
“And you will, because she never should have been your wife in the first place,” Isabella snapped. “I was always the better choice, but you never even looked at me—why? I’m beautiful, my body is perfection, I’m rich, and I’m fertile. What the hell did you ever see in the fat, ugly, barren, nobody?”
And that question had been the catalyst, the trigger on a loaded gun pointed straight at his head.
The mess Isabella had left in her wake once he’d finally had security drag her from his office was the mess he’d carried home to his wife that night.
The mess he was still no closer to cleaning up days later.