“Make what a habit?”

“Scaring me to death.”

“Depends on how much you piss me off. You forgot to tell me you almost got assassinated. By my father, no less.”

“He sent a shit aim,” he responded, some of the metal returning to his voice. “He was only half serious about killing me. I do, after all, hold his daughter hostage.”

To that, I said nothing.

He got up from my bed, his lithe body no longer tensed. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

He was going to leave, I realized. My eyes glanced at my wristwatch. It was three in the morning. He needed to be up early for his flight to Springfield. But I couldn’t bear the idea of him leaving me today after he showed me affection. I didn’t want to lose it. Didn’t want us to go back to what we were a few hours ago, before my life was on the line. Two strangers who enjoyed dry-humping each other and shared a dinner table every once in a while.

I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he wanted to go back to the previous state. And that if he left—we would.

“No,” I croaked when he was at the door. He turned around slowly, scanning me. It was all in his expression. The dread of knowing what I was about to ask. To him, I was an asset. Now that he knew that I was okay, he could go about his day. Or rather, night.

“I don’t want to stay alone tonight. Could you…only for tonight?” I blinked, hating the desperation in my voice. He peeked at the door again, almost longingly.

“I have an early morning.”

“My captor has given me quite the comfy bed,” I patted it, blushing under my bruises. He shifted from foot to foot.

“I need to let Sterling know that you’re okay.”

“Of course.” I tried to make my voice sound chirp, blinking back the tears. “Yes. She’s probably super worried. Forget what I said. Besides, I’m tired. I think I’ll fall asleep before you close the door.”

He nodded, leaving the door ajar.

I was too tired to mourn my unfulfilled request. I fell asleep a minute after he left my room with the half-smoked cigarette swimming inside my water glass, a habit that made Wolfe cuss under his breath as he collected the glasses after me.

When I woke up the next day, the clock hit seven. I tried to stir myself awake, but felt massive weight pressing against my body. God. How badly was I hurt? I could barely move an inch. When I tried to wiggle my right arm, reaching to the alarm clock to slam the button and stop its chirp, I realized that it wasn’t soreness that stopped me from moving.

My husband was sleeping behind me, his stomach pressed against my back. Still in his suit, his breaths were deep and silent. I could feel his penis digging into my butt through our clothes. He had morning wood. I felt myself blushing, biting down a smile.

He returned to my room. He spent the night in my bed. I asked for something—something he had told me explicitly would never happen—and he gave it to me.

I put my hand over his arm, which circled my midriff, his nose and mouth pushed alongside my shoulder blade. I prayed for one thing that morning—that this wasn’t a sweet lie, but a forbidden truth.

Lies, I couldn’t deal with.

But finding a truth and digging that vein until it gushed out? I was up for that challenge.

LONG BEFORE I REALIZED THAT Francesca Rossi was in existence, I’d studied her father’s workday closely. Seeking revenge was a full-time job, and the more you knew, the more thoroughly you could ruin. I looked for weakness in his business, and loopholes in his contracts, when actually, his daughter was his most-valued possession. Both more fatal and more personal than any strip club I could shut down. The problem occurred when I realized that Arthur no longer treasured his daughter. As far as he could tell, she was no longer his ally. And to make matters worse, she married a man who was determined to kill his business, not inherit it.

The game had changed.

Arthur allowed Mike Bandini to target his daughter.

Because his daughter was also my wife.

And my wife, I foolishly proved to him, was important to me.

My Jaguar stopped in front of Mama’s Pizza restaurant in Little Italy. It was a quaint place that smelled of freshly baked sourdough and tomato soup and my goddamn sorrow. The business lost mountains of money every month but made for a great money-laundering venue. It was where The Outfit had their daily meetings. Whatever dark feelings I harbored toward Mama’s Pizza weren’t enough to keep me from making my point to those idiots.

Smithy got out of the vehicle and opened the back door for me. I waltzed into the restaurant, ignoring the plump, disoriented lady behind the counter, and went through the door behind her. Stepping into the dim room, I found ten men sitting around a round table. It was the old checked white and red Italian BS, complete with a yellow, half-burned, unlit candle. Behind it sat my father-in-law.

Round tables broke hierarchy.

Last time I’d been to Mama’s Pizza—the table was square, and Arthur Rossi was at the head of it.

And behind him hung a glassed window covering shotguns. Picture-effin-esque.

I sauntered toward him, the annoying woman behind me yelling and apologizing in one breath, and flipped the table with all its contents—beer, wine, water, orange juice, and breadsticks—over the laps of the men in front of it. They sat there, mouths slacked, watching me through a curtain of shock and anger. I was standing in front of Rossi, his dress pants soiled with the wine he’d been drinking. Next to him sat Mike Bandini, Angelo’s father, who slowly began to rise from his chair, no doubt about to either run or point a gun at me. I grasped his shoulder, digging my fingers in until I met his bones through his skin, then pushed him back into his chair, and kicked it across the room. The chair’s wooden legs skated a foot back from the force. I glimpsed at Arthur, pleased to see that his palm was still wrapped up from the night he stained the white sheets with his own blood.

“How’s your face today, Bandini?” I smiled good-naturedly at Angelo’s father. He sucked his teeth in, smirking at me.

“In one piece.” His eyes looked left and right, trying to assess everyone else’s reaction to my surprise visit. They were pale as ghosts and crapping their pants. I wasn’t the police. Them—they could deal with. I was the man who had the power to get White fired, and worse—plant Bishop and Rossi in such deep shit they’d never climb out of it. But getting rid of me didn’t work, either. And now, it was out of the question. I had my driver and two security men parked up front.

“That’s good to hear because my wife’s face isn’t. In fact, her nose is still bleeding.” I threw a fist to his nose without warning, making all the men around us stand in unison, only to have Arthur motion for them to sit down with his hand, his lips thinning into a fine line. Mike’s head reared back, his chair flying backward and falling to the ground, him inside it. I took two steps and swallowed the distance between us.

“Her ribs are sore, too,” I added, kicking Mike in the ribs. Everyone around us sucked their teeth in, furious with the vulnerability of their situation. I took a handkerchief out of my breast pocket and wiped my hands, sighing theatrically. “Last but not least, her lips are sore. I’m going to let you choose—fist or foot?” I glanced down at him, cocking my head. Waking up in my wife’s bed was an unpleasant surprise. But feeling her ass digging into my erection with little finesse as she tried to please me was definitely something I could get used to after what seemed like a lifetime without actual sex. I knew she was too sore, but still couldn’t resist the urge to dry-fuck her under the sheets. So I did just that; I unbuckled my dress pants and pressed my shaft against her ass cheeks. After I came on her nightgown, I left her room, ordering Ms. Sterling to make sure that she drank, ate, and didn’t do any heavy lifting. Right before I picked up the phone and had Zion hire a bodyguard for her.

“Fist.” Mike grinned, his teeth covered in blood. A mobster, after all.

“Foot it is, then. I don’t take any orders from you.” I smashed my Oxford-clad foot right into his face and heard a crack as his nose smashed to pieces. Stepping back, I strolled around the room. I, too, had better things to do with my day than spend it with men who ruined my hard work for a living.

“I’m feeling charitable today. Maybe it’s the bliss of being a newlywed. I’ve always been a hopeless romantic.” I scanned Arthur’s twisted face and the soldiers around him, who sat with the kind of electric defiance that rolled off their red-blooded bodies. Fists balled, chins high, feet tapping over the floor. They were dying to beat the hell out of me but knew I was depressingly untouchable.

I wasn’t always like this, though. And Arthur Rossi was the sole reason for my weaknesses.

“So I’m going to spare the bastards’ lives who did this to Francesca. But I thought a gentle reminder—and trust me, this is my idea of gentle—was more than necessary. I have the power and the means to shut you down completely and kill every part of your business. I could make sure all your recycling and sanitation projects are terminated. I have the power to purchase all the competing restaurants and bars to yours, throw money at them, and watch as they put yours out of business. I could make sure your families don’t have a breadcrumb to eat for dinner, and that your medical bills are unpaid. I could send the FBI to your underground gambling joints and whorehouses. I could reopen cases that have been dormant for years and hire enough investigators to populate your streets”—I took a deep breath—“and I could bleed you dry of every dime you own. But I’m not doing that. Not yet, at least, so don’t give me a reason.”

Arthur frowned. Up until now, he stayed silent. “Are you implying that I harmed my daughter, you slimy little shit?”

“Bandini’s muscle did.” I pointed at his friend, who was standing up from the floor and wiping his face of blood. Arthur turned to Bandini sharply. Oh, brother. He didn’t even know. His empire was falling apart. His power diminishing by the minute. It wasn’t necessarily a good thing for me. A weak king is a mad one.