She’d special ordered the gifts, which were scheduled to be delivered later that week, which was still two weeks before Christmas. Just enough time to finish decorating for the holiday, wrap the gifts, and put them under the tree.
Already, the penthouse looked like every girlhood dream of what Santa’s house would look like—garland, ornaments, wreaths, and the eight-foot tall Fraser fir she’d had imported from Canada, that was tastefully decorated in golds and silver and reds.
It was shaping up to be an amazing Christmas…so why was there a strange sort of uneasiness keeping her from completely wrapping herself in the Christmas Spirit?
Despite the ache in her heart at missing her husband, and the anxiety over those pictures of him and that woman, Kendra smiled, slowly rubbing her belly.
There was a baby resting in there, and she would do whatever it took to make sure their baby was healthy, grew up loved and happy, and never knew a moment of pain.
Something her own parents failed at.
And Gideon’s, too.
As thoughts of her husband, their baby, and the last several days swirled in her mind, Kendra couldn’t stop a deep, creeping apprehension from dragging its long, shadowy fingers through her body.
She shuddered, her heart aching, as the grandfather clock struck one in the morning.
Another night without Gideon, without her husband lying in bed beside her, his large body curling around her as he slept and she lay awake memorizing the feeling of him against her, sothose nights when he was traveling, she’d still have him there with her…even if only in her mind.
That night, she fell asleep, the bed beside her empty, her hand pressed against a belly that no longer was.
“What a goddamn mess,” Gideon spat, thrusting his fingers through his already tousled hair. “How the fuck did that asshole Wilkens get those pictures, and how the fuck did he get them past me and onto the fucking rag?”
Logan huffed, glaring at the images on his laptop. “AI. No doubt,” he replied. “Well made but still made up.” He pointed to the screen, indicating the misspelling on a sign in the background of the image. “I’ve been to this deli, and that sign was repainted months ago, and even then, the owners know how to spell their own last name right.”
Gideon planted his hand on Logan’s desk and leaned forward, peering where Logan indicated. Sure enough, Meyer’s Deli was misspelled as Meeyer’s Deli, a clear mistake—if one knew where to look.
Gideon slammed his fist against the desk, making Logan roll his eyes. “Easy there, Hulk,” he reprimanded mockingly. “I get that this is bad, but it’s easy enough to prove to Mancini.”
Adolfo Mancini was the underboss of the Tempesta Famiglia in New York and New Jersey—a proper Mafia family, with all the danger and “Omerta” to go with it. Mancini, as the second in charge, had to be clean as a fucking whistle to keep the feds, the DEA, and the state’s attorney general off his ass. And that’s where Maddox Publishing came along; they kept all the media in the entire fucking country from reporting anything that could, in any way, be tied to the Tempesta or Mancini families.
It was a deal they’d made twenty years ago when Gideon had been struggling under the weight of rebuilding the business his father had snorted, drank, and fucked away until it was barely able to hold water. At barely twenty years old, he’d had no idea what the fuck he was doing, but he knew it needed to be big, successful, and powerful so that he and his brothers never had to depend onanyonefor their safety or happiness again.
It was then that Adolfo approached him. He’d front the business two million dollars and a few legit connections in the right places, and the Maddoxes would help keep the Tempesta Famiglia’s name out of people’s mouths.
And he’d done that very thing, for going on twenty years; keeping the Mafia squeaky clean—at least in the news. His success earned him the respect of the most powerful men on the East Coast, and he’d used that respect to keep himself and his brothers out of anything too…incriminating. It’d been working, fortwenty fucking years.
And then that fucker Robbie Wilkens had sold a motherfucking AI image to a rag in Hoboken that supposedly showed two major political and underworld players committing potentially criminal acts—one of whom was Ignacio, the son of none other than Adolfo Mancini.
“That man is older than Moses, he has no fucking idea how to use a coffee maker, let alone understand what AI is and how someone can create an artificial image showing a shady deal in a mom-and-pop deli between Mancini’s son and heir, and the motherfucking mayor’s brother.” A growl of frustration rumbled from his chest.
Logan sat back, his gaze watchful, analytical, and crossed his arms. “Mancini won’t understand but his son will; let him explain,” he offered, waving his hand carelessly, like it was that fucking easy. “Or have Isabella do it—she seems…capable.”
At the mention of that woman, Gideon furrowed his brows, the sensation of nails on a chalkboard zagging through his body. “I would rather pour acid on my balls than go out of my way to talk to that woman about anything.”
Logan grunted. “Tell that to the tabloids that have you married off with two kids, a Jackapoo, and a bi-yearly vacation to Monaco.”
Grinding his teeth, Gideon checked the time on his $89,000 IWC Performance Chronograph 41 watch—a birthday gift from Kendra.
Nearing midnight.
Shit.
For the third night in a row, he wasn’t home to see his wife before she went to bed.
As a successful children’s book author, Kendra could keep whatever hours she wanted, so she often stayed up to around midnight watching TV or reading, and then slept until about 9 AM most mornings. That meant that on nights when midnight hit and he was still in the office, he wouldn’t see his wife at all, because she’d be in bed before he got home, and he’d be out of bed before she woke up.
It was bullshit, bordering on unsustainable, but there was nothing he could do about it if he didn’t want a mob bullet planted between his fucking eyes.
