At seven on the dot, Hannah drags her to the dining room. One stubborn vixen versus a five-foot tall Italian tornado. Hannah sets out a feast—minestrone soup, grilled chicken pesto, breadsticks, and tiramisu.
But myzemërbarely eats.
Three bites, maybe four, before she pushes the plates away, a hand on her stomach.
Then she stares at the camera, the arrogant tilt of her chin daring me to find her.
A hunger strike.
I have half a mind to drag her into the kitchen, hold her on my lap and feed her myself. See the pink return to her cheeks. My groin twitches thinking about her curvy ass on my thighs.
Hannah’s worried, and I ignore the twist in my gut. While Lana’s personality has remained the same, she’s getting too frail.
The stubborn woman. Maybe I need to give her some freedom.
I tell myself it’s only for appearances. A sickly looking wife won’t impress The Association. I didn’t marry her so she’d slowly kill herself under my watch.
If I can’t control a woman, how will they ever trust me with their kill ledgers?
Obsession is a disease that’s easily fed.
But fuck, having her in my home, sleeping three doors away from me, tests limits I didn’t know existed.
So, I’ve buried myself in work.
Meetings. Blackmails. Bartering secrets on behalf of the Berishas.
Folks have come out of the woodwork to congratulate me on my marriage. The Berishas have even sent over a bottle of their best Raki.
The fucking bastards. Like they didn’t force me into this move.
And now it’s time to meet with the rest of The Antihero Syndicate.
The air grows colder as I pass through the Hall of Saints, the marble statues of the twelve disciples frozen in prayer. The scent of wax and incense follows me as I turn into The Syndicate chamber.
Three men sit around an oval obsidian table inlaid with gold chess pieces.
Aleksei grins beneath his LED mask. “Well, well, well. Our fearless leader has joined us.” He yanks the mask off and ruffles his shorn brown hair, his neck tattoos twisting like ghosts.
The masks are necessary—keeping identities secret in public or when we exit our cars to meet here. We can’t have The Association knowing we have members of the Bratva, the Irish mob, the Italian Mafia, and the Chinese Triads conspiring against them. After all, these gangs are their foot soldiers. It doesn’t hurt that there’s a prominent theater group in the building next door, so no one bats an eye at costumes and masks.
“Marriage. How antiquated,” Sebastian drawls, immaculate in his navy pinstripe suit, styled dirty-blond hair, silver mask set aside.
“You’re supposed to congratulate the man.” Aleksei grins. “I’m far from normal, but even I know that. We need to prep you better. Hide your psychopath. Give us a smile. Say, ‘Congratulations, I’m so happy for—’”
He chokes. “I can’t. Even I can’t do this. Elias looks like he’ll kill me. We’ll prep you better next time, Sebastian.”
Sebastian’s pen ticks against a stack of papers. The mob lawyer looks wholly uninterested in everything around him.
Ren snorts and twirls his gun, his leather jacket creaking when he props his feet up on the table.
“Off,” Sebastian snaps.
Ren sighs. “You said—”
He stops signing when Sebastian arches his brow. With a growl, Ren pulls out his cell phone and starts typing.
Ren
