Chapter 19 #2
Saint polishes off the rest of my bottle of San Pellegrino. “You’re going to fuck Cantarelli’s widow when he’s barely cold?”
Lucky shrugs. “Not what I said, but my charm is pretty fucking legendary, so it wouldn’t surprise me if she threw herself at me. Everyone knows those two were on the outs.”
“Get your fucking feet off my desk, fratello,” I snap at him, annoyed at his good mood and complete lack of responsibilities.
He moves them slowly, making a show of it, like he’s got all day. I resist the urge to kick his ass because that’s not going to get us any closer to accomplishing what needs to be done at this meeting.
He stretches his arms overhead, still comfortable in my chair. “Happy now?”
“I’d be happier if I knew for certain that the Bratva was behind the deal. What’s your contact with the cartel saying?”
Lucky sits up straight. “They’re pissed, but they’re not willing to break ties with us over it. They know it wasn’t us. Our men were taken out too.”
“Do they have any intel?”
“Not that they’ve shared with me.”
“Damn. It was worth a shot.”
“Does Ekaterina know anything?” Priest asks.
I shake my head. “She’s not in the loop on anything her brother does, from what I can tell. I did a thorough search of her old phone before I gave her the new one.”
I’d been half expecting to find her phone filled with messages from that fucking dancer, Jacob, or other men.
But I hadn’t found anything other than idle chitchat about work or making arrangements for practice and meeting up for dinner or yoga.
And there was definitely nothing from her brothers that was the least bit incriminating.
She seemed genuinely lost about what happened the night before, and I don’t think she’s putting on an act.
“She could be a part of this,” Saint points out, almost mimicking some of the same concerns that have been rolling around in my brain.
It stands to reason. If Sidorov planned to attack us, why would he marry his sister off to me? To throw suspicion off him until he achieves whatever his aim is? To plant someone in our ranks and gain our trust?
“It’s possible,” I acknowledge. “But I don’t think Katya would do Sidorov’s dirty work for him.”
Priest turns toward me, stopping his pacing. “Katya, is it?”
“She did do the dirty work of marrying you,” Saint points out.
And again, he’s not wrong.
“She was backed into a corner the same way I was,” I counter, defending her for reasons I’m not going to consider at the moment. “Neither of us had a choice. It was either go through with it, or start a war between the Bratva and us.”
Saint lifts a brow, looking grim. “Which now seems poised to happen anyway.”
“Right. So, what do we do about it?”
“We need to go on the offensive with the Bratva,” Priest says. “They’re playing a game with us, and I don’t fucking like it.”
I don’t disagree with any of that.
I nod. “What do you have in mind?”
“They recently opened a new sex club on the border of our territory. That’s a bit too close for comfort. I think it’s time to use some of their own tricks against them.”
“Such as?” Saint asks.
“Kaboom,” Lucky says.
Priest grins. “Exactly.”
Katya
Exhausted, I return the roller to the pan and stare at my handiwork, pleased with myself. The formerly white walls in my husband’s primary bedroom are now a bright, tropical shade of pink. He’s going to hate it on sight.
Enzo wants to leave me behind and act like I can’t be trusted to know where he’s going or why? Tells me to settle in like a good wife?
Fine.
I may like his dominance in the bedroom, but when we’re fully clothed and nothing sexual is going on, I’m not about to let him get away with his arrogant Mafia kingpin bullshit.
Nope. We’re equal partners. I’m not going to be patted on the head like an annoying kid too immature to understand the real world.
This is a two-way street.
Currently, a Flamingo’s-Pink-Paradise-colored street.
And that’s just the tip of this little iceberg.
Turns out, Antonio really did have a credit card at his disposal with my name on it. I put it to very good use today, and I still haven’t reached my limit. But there’s always tomorrow.
Antonio was a good sport. He even waited with me while the paint was mixed and carried it dutifully through the store.
“You have a plan for this, Mrs. Andriani?” he asked in a respectful tone as we returned to Enzo’s apartment and he delivered my goodies for me.
“Sure do,” I told him brightly. “By the way, Mr. Andriani wanted me to order dinner in this evening for him. Is there anything he doesn’t like, so I know what to avoid?”
“He hates sushi,” Antonio helpfully supplied.
I’ve got dinner waiting in the fridge from a Japanese restaurant on the corner—one of every sushi roll on their menu—along with a nice bottle of sake and some miso soup I can heat when Enzo gets back.
My new phone dings from where I abandoned it across the room on a gorgeous dresser I’ve splattered with pink paint.
The screen is lit up.
Marito: I’ll be home in ten.
I assume that’s Enzo, preprogrammed into my contacts for me. But just to be sure, I swipe to a search engine and type in marito.
“Husband in Italian,” I read out loud.
Then I roll my eyes and tap out my response.
Katya: See you soon.
I stare at the screen before sending, overthinking and rethinking.
Then I delete it and try again.
Katya: I have a surprise for you.
There. Let him wonder what the surprise is. He’ll probably imagine me waiting for him, completely naked and on all fours. Ha!
I toss the phone onto the dresser and then head back to my paint supplies.
Cleanup doesn’t take me long. It hasn’t escaped my notice that Enzo’s kitchen is immaculate.
So clean, you could eat your lunch out of the sink.
Naturally, I’ve gone through the cabinets, leaving some hanging open.
Abandoning a mess of pink paint in the sink, half watered-down, should add nicely to the overall effect.
It’s an excellent complement to the lunch plate I left on the island, the trash I intentionally neglected to throw away, and the stool I pulled out and abandoned.
And that’s just the kitchen.
I also scooped out a few of his drawers, dumping the neatly folded shirts and boxer briefs on his pillow.
During my shopping expedition with Antonio, I bought nearly an entire makeup counter.
I also bought all the shower gels, creams, scrubs, and shampoos I could find and filled the primary shower with them, leaving his products strewn on the bathroom counter.
I’m not going to lie, I did open his shower gel and take a good whiff of it. Then I showered and left my wet towel in a crumpled heap on the floor.
I get out a few trays of sushi and start placing them on the dining room table in preparation for his arrival.
I’m going to be the best good little wife Lorenzo Andriani can possibly hope for.
I pour him a big glass of sake. I’m just lighting the candles on the dining room table—also hot pink and a garish replacement for the understated, elegant candles that were here to begin with—when the elevator door opens and my husband saunters in.
The main space of his massive apartment is open, a combination of kitchen, dining, and living room all in one.
So he sees me before the doors even close behind him.
He’s wearing a suit like every other day, and damn the man if he doesn’t look like an actor who’s just walked off the red carpet at the Oscars instead of a Mafia enforcer who’s come back from a long day of questionable work.
My heart beats fast and my pussy flutters.
I’m remembering everything that’s happened between us as he gives me a slow, sexy smile.
His head between my legs, all the orgasms he gave me, the way he played with me, edging me right before he left.
My nipples are hard. I’m still wearing my yoga outfit from this morning, but now it’s been embellished with a few splashes of Flamingo’s Pink Paradise.
“Cara mia,” he greets me in that low, sexy voice of his that never fails to incinerate my panties. “How was your day?”
“Busy.” I smile. “How was yours?”
“The same.” He toes off his shoes and strides into the dining room, a frown creasing his features as his eyes dip to my Adidas sneakers, still on my feet.
His carpet, like the walls of his bedroom used to be, is a stark, glacial white.
I wouldn’t have guessed a man like him would go for so much white, but being in his space without him for all these hours has left me feeling like I’ve gotten to know him at least a bit.
And he’s clearly a man who values spartan modernity, everything white, gray, or black, neat and tidy, no extra clutter, mess, or fuss.
It makes sense to me that a man whose professional world is filled with mayhem, destruction, violence, unpredictability, and death would surround himself with a calming, neutral palette and careful order. It’s probably good for his brain.
To his credit, he doesn’t say anything about the sneakers I’m intentionally wearing. But his gaze does fall on the sushi laid out on the dining room table.
“I ordered dinner for us,” I announce brightly. “Sushi. I hope you like it.”
He opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it and flashes me an easy grin instead. “Perfect.”
I’m a little deflated by his lack of reaction. I was hoping for horror or disgust. Or for him to tell me he can’t stand sushi as he angrily tossed two grand worth of tuna, salmon, and eel into the trash. But I’m getting none of that. Instead, he’s being completely reasonable. And it irks me.
“I have the miso heating on the stove,” I tell him. “I’ll go get it. There’s some chilled sake waiting for you. Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll serve up the soup?”
His smile doesn’t slip. “Thanks, cara.”
He’s being nice. Way too nice. Where is the arrogant Scorpion Andriani? The kidnapping mafioso? The ruthless enforcer?