Chapter 48
Chapter Forty-Eight
Burner Phone Problems
Raf
I’m not sure what’s worse, the banging in my head or the burning sensation of raw flesh where my new art has been inked into my skin.
Chiara has her head on the right side of my chest, lightly running her fingers over the wolf with piercing green eyes that now covers the left side. She’s cackling at my expense as the group chat she created descends into madness.
“You’re a brat,” I say with a tug on the bun atop her head so as not to irritate the fresh ink running down the top of her spine. I trace her words lightly with my finger. Per sempre tuo. Forever Yours. The same three words I had incorporated into my tattoo, right above my heart.
She goes to toss her phone to the side, but I stop her.
“Take a pic,” I say.
She lifts her eyes to mine. “Really? Mr. I Don’t Do Selfies wants a pic?”
I peer down at her, returning her playful smile.
“What can I say? I like this view of my wife, and I never want to forget it.”
She lines the camera up above us and snaps a photo of her on my chest, her sparkly green eyes to match those of the wolf now inked on my skin in full focus. A reminder of her as well as my responsibility to lead our pack. Me and her.
Our phones continue to vibrate with incoming messages thanks to my queen of TMI discussing our sex life in the group chat.
I was in fact woken up in the best way—with her soft lips wrapped around me.
However, a blowjob, a hangover, and physical pain are no match for the gnawing feeling in my gut that I haven’t yet checked the burner phone, and that I still haven’t dealt with the fallout of bailing on the dinner.
Thankfully, the engagement party took precedence over the lecture from my father that’s been put on ice until Monday if the meeting he has scheduled in my diary for 7 a.m. Monday morning is any indication.
Part of me is grateful I don’t have to think about it until then.
Part of me wonders why he couldn’t just ask me over for a scotch and talk it through, not as colleagues, but as equals.
“Raf…” comes Chiara’s husky voice.
“Hmmmm?” I respond automatically.
“Can you turn it down?”
“Turn what down?” I ask, looking around confused.
“Your brain. It’s very loud. Is everything okay?”
I chuckle, and it comes out more as an exhale, which makes me realize I’ve been holding my breath.
“Yes, angel. All good. I’m just thinking about the trial.”
“It starts soon right?”
“Yes.”
“How do you feel about it?”
“Like I want it to be over already,” I say honestly.
“The next few weeks are going to be crucial. Sophia and I need to get all our victims prepared for what to expect once they’re on the stand.
It’s going to be completely overwhelming and daunting for them, so making sure we lay out everything and provide twenty-four-seven support is key.
The last thing we want is for them to pull out from the pressure of it all before we even get them on the stand.
” I swallow thickly. “The hardest part is getting them prepared for the cross-examination. The defense team will use all the tactics to put a hole in the girls’ stories.
Use their own words against them. I know the Bartholomew Joneses will spare no expense to get Arty off the hook. ”
“Will the evidence showing he spiked Sophia’s drink that night he tricked her into going for drinks with him be used during the trial?”
I shake my head. “No. She decided to withhold it. She was concerned that if she went on record, it might be considered a conflict of interest.”
“Do you think he also had something to do with Marco’s shooting?”
“Yes,” I tell her honestly. “I think he did, but pinning it on him is going to be even harder.”
“Well, what about that anonymous source who came forward,” she pushes. “What’s the update there? Have they given you anything else?”
I can’t tell her that the only thing that anonymous source is concerned with is getting in touch with her, so I stretch the truth instead.
“Not enough to give us hard evidence,” I say, aware she’s referring to the burner phone. It’s technically true, I rationalize. Julian may not be my pretend anonymous source, but he also never came through with the intel he promised AJ.
“Hopefully if we can get Arty on enough charges, we can press him about the shooting too.”
“I have complete faith in you, babe. You two are going to Harvey Spector and Mike Ross this, I just know it.”
I know her joke is not to minimize the severity of the case, but more her way to lighten the heavy mood that has descended just talking about what I’m facing in the coming weeks and months. I squeeze her tighter, grateful that, at the end of the day, I’ve got her to come home to.
She peppers little kisses all the way up my chest until her face is above mine.
I touch my nose to hers and ask her the same question she asks me when she wants to avoid thinking of all the bad things that could steal the joy.
“Tell me something good, angel.”
“Per sempre tuo,” she whispers, adding, “Always.”
The other three words I want to say are right there, but the burden of the secret burner in the safe and the little lies we’re both keeping steals my ability to let them free.
“Always,” I whisper back against her lips before giving her ass a playful tap. “Go jump in the shower. I’ll meet you in there.”
“Ooohhh, sexy shower times are my favorite,” she says, rolling out of bed and strutting to the bathroom. Before she disappears inside, she looks over her shoulder at me. “Do not leave me waiting, otherwise Diego will get the honors of my first orgasm.”
“Who the fuck is Diego?”
“My dildo,” she says simply before stepping out of view.
“He can join us, but I’m still the boss,” I call out, only to be met with the sound of her slapping something against the tiles and her tinkling cackle.
It hits me then: Love isn’t grand gestures. It’s the sum of all the infinitesimal moments collected over time that fill your heart to bursting.
I open the safe and pull out the burner. There’s a slew of messages from last night, which were more of the same, begging for a chance to explain. Then there’s the latest.
Unknown:
You win, but I’ll be waiting.
Bile rises in my throat. I want to blame it on the hangover and lack of oily food in my stomach to combat it, but I can’t shake this ominous feeling that Alessandro’s message was, in fact, intended for me.