That’s part of the genius of a man like Malcolm Langston—he’s both a businessman and a criminal himself. But he’s a civilized man, striking the perfect balance and thus shielding his wife and daughter from the grimy parts.
For as defiant and opinionated as Simone is, she’s still deeply sheltered. She really is basically a princess.
I tamp down on my temper for once, forcing myself to take a breath. Reminding myself I’ve got to cool it and find a way to get her to open up to me.
Get her to see I’m livid on her behalf. She needs to understand… she needs to know…
This kind of shit will not be tolerated.
I shrug off my long black coat, letting it fall to the accent chair in the corner, and roll up my shirt sleeves to the elbow.
Then I approach her side of the bed and lower myself down to sit beside where she’s laying, the mattress dipping under my weight.
Her eyes open slowly, looking up at me. They’re red rimmed and tired. She’s been crying.
“How’re you feeling, princess?” I ask, my tone softer than usual.
She blinks, then her expression hardens slightly. “It’s none of your concern.”
“How do you figure?” I counter. “You’re my wife.”
She rolls over, giving me her back, mumbling, “It doesn’t matter if I am.”
I realize what she means. We’ve been at each other’s throats from the moment we were forced to marry. We’ve detested each other and fought constantly, making each other’s lives miserable.
She’s obviously assuming that means I’ll let shit like this fly.
I’m never gonna let anybody hurt her. Regardless of what problems we’ve got with each other.
I reach out and stroke her shoulder. “Hey. Look at me.”
She doesn’t move, stubbornly staying put.
“Simone, look at me.”
Finally, reluctantly, she glances at me from over her shoulder. Her hazel eyes are darker than usual, full of wariness and hurt. She searches my face like she’s trying to figure out if this is some trick.
My hand travels from her shoulder up to caress her cheek. I go slow, being as gentle as a brute gangster like me can be, showing her I come in peace. I hold her gaze the entire time, letting her see how serious and sincere I’m being.
“We’ve got our differences. We might fight like fucking cats and dogs,” I say, “but we’re still husband and wife. That means something, princess. Nobody—and I meannobody—messes with you. They mess with you, they’re messing with me. Got it?”
Her lips part, surprise flickering across her face. It takes her a couple seconds longer, though she slowly nods, her eyes never leaving mine.
“Tell me what happened. Tell me everything.”
She pushes herself up, some strands of hair slipping into her face. Exhaling a deep breath, she pauses as if to collect her thoughts.
“It happened so fast. I had just snuck off for a moment so I could have some space. I was looking at dresses in the mirror, and then…” She swallows hard, her throat working. “It was like the air shifted. Like I could feel something was wrong before I even saw him. Suddenly I look up, and there’s this huge hulking man standing behind me. As soon as I looked at him… I knew he was up to no good. His eyes were cold. They were dead.
“I froze up. I couldn’t even bring myself to scream. My brain just… stopped. He stepped closer. He reeked like cigarettes and was so big—” she breaks off, her eyes squeezing shut. “He told me that Dren’s realized it’s most effective to send a warning through me. Then maybe… maybe my dad and you will listen.”
She pulls back the sleeve on her sweater and reveals a deep blue and purple bruise on her wrist.
We both stare down at it for a second in heavy silence. Simone drawing another shaky breath. Me with a fresh wave of rage surging through me.
“He grabbed my wrist,” she whispers. “Really hard. He kept squeezing it, and he wrenched me closer and said to stop fucking with their business. Then he just… let go and left.”
I touch my fingers to the bruise, studying how the damage purples her beautiful brown skin. Marring it in this way is like desecrating a priceless work of art in a museum.
