Elliott turns his head away like an insolent child.
“I’m prepared to give you options, Elliott.”
Still nothing in response.
“Fine. Another week it is.”
I turn to walk away, and Elliott starts to yell.
“Wait, what are the options. Dad!” I don’t stop walking. “You’re such a piece of shit! Just wait until I’m out of here, and how I’ll make you wish you were never born!”
I slam the door closed behind me and stare at Jack, who just sighs.
“Food every other day. Water once a day. I’ll be back in a week.”
He nods grimly and I walk away.
It’s late,past midnight, when I walk into the mansion. I ended up going up to the office in the penthouse to get some last minute work done, including going over the shipment I’m expecting in my port in LA tomorrow, before I decided to head home.
I hate that I haven’t seen Natasha today, and now she’s probably in bed. Unless she’s a night owl.
I don’t even know whether my wife prefers morning or night.
Walking through the house, I grin to myself. I can smell her soft jasmine scent in the air. The mansion already feels more like a home because she’s in it. I tug off my tie and jacket and am rolling my sleeves when the kitchen comes into view, and I stumble to a stop.
My angel is sitting on a stool at the island, slumped over, sleeping.
There are two bowls of food sitting there, uneaten.
She didn’t eat?
When I approach, I see that it’s not leftover Chinese either. This is soup that she must have heated in the microwave, but it’s gone cold now.
Shit.
I didn’t call or text to let her know that I’d be late. I haven’t had anyone to answer to inyears.
Natasha shifts on the stool and opens her eyes, and then they grow wide when she sees me, and she sits up.
“Oh, I’ll heat this up. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“You should have gone to bed, sweetheart.” I stride to her and cup her cheek. She doesn’t flinch, and it warms my chest. “Why are you still up?”
“It’s my job.”
I frown down at her. “What’s your job?”
“As a wife, it’s my job to make sure dinner is ready for whenever you get home, and I’m not allowed to leave the kitchen until after you’ve eaten.”
What in the actual fuck is she talking about?
“Who taught you that, Natasha?”
She yawns, and I lift her into my arms, carrying her to the stairs.
“My mom. It’s part of being an organized crime wife.”
Shaking my head, I press my lips to her temple. “We’re going to talk about these rules in the morning, but I want to make it clear that I don’t expect you to have dinner ready for me ever, Angel. I’m hiring a chef.”
