So, I give her space. I pick myself up off our bed. A bed that holds a lot of fucked up memories. And I leave.
Morning comes, and my wife is back to locking herself in the bathroom. I know because when I go to deliver her breakfast, she's not in our bed. When I knock on the bathroom door, she tells me to go away.
I don't.
Last night, I didn't fucking sleep. I couldn't. I needed her. Wanted her. Couldn't stomach the idea of her alone in our bed, again.
So here I am, pining outside of her door like a teenage boy.
"Gemma. Please. At least eat something," I shift the tray in my hands. "Lyla made muffins. The kind you like with the citrus." The nastiest ones she makes, in my personal opinion, but she loves making them for Gemma.
"I'm not hungry."
I close my eyes, count to ten to try and calm myself.
"You need to eat. I know it feels good to control something?—"
"I said I'm fine!" Her voice cracks. "I'll eat. I just…Please. Just... leave me alone."
I rest my forehead against the door. I miss the days when we were on the same fucking page. It feels like so long ago. "I love you."
Silence. The words are hard for me to say. I don't think I've ever even said them to another person. And yet, here I am. Opening my fucking heart out and handing it to her on a tray.
I try not to feel bitter that the door is still closed in my face.
"I know I'm shit at showing it. I know I fucked up, but I do love you, Gemma. And I don't know how to fix this if you are hiding from me." I flex my hand to keep myself from kicking the door in and making her listen to me. "I'm not good with this type of shit."
More silence.
I can hear her breathing on the other side of the door.
"I need time, Saint. Please."
I slam my hand, open-palmed, on the wood. "Fine," I mutter. I'm being an asshole, but it's the best I've got right now.
I leave because that's what she asked for.
Besides, business never stops, and I have things to take care of. The Russians were only one of the problems I need to mop up. There are more than one, but this one, I can control.
I don't tell anyone where I'm going. No guards. No Marcello.
I just take my car and drive over to the Nero mansion.
It's time to settle a fucking score. Artem is handled, or rather, he decided to not currently be a threat, but that doesn't mean all threats are neutralized.
I need to hit something, and Adrian feels like a good target.
It's mid-morning, and I know he'll be home. I learned his entire schedule when we were fucking with him, and I suspect he does little deviation.
The guards recognize me. After a beat and a call into their phones, they let me in. Why wouldn't they? I'm allied with Adrian—family.
He probably thinks I'm here to talk about Artem. Maybe we will get to that in the future, but right now, I have bigger issues with the asshole.
I walk through the house. Past staff. Past guards. Straight to his office.
I don't knock; I just let myself inside.
Adrian looks up. "Saint. I heard?—"
