Lucy’s head came up from the documents. “It doesn’t say here that Chloe has to marry a Zahkarov. Only one of Ivan’s offspring should marry a King.”
Acid backed up my throat, and an anvil weighed down my gut at her implication. “No.”
“That could mean Aralina could marry a King.”
“Fuck no. No way is my sister marrying into that psychopathic family.”
Lucy leveled me a look that said,Pot, meet kettle.
At the same time, Chloe said, “I rest my case.”
Everyone started talking, and my head throbbed as much as the top of my shoulder. It was radiating up my neck. I wondered if I was having a stroke.
So it was a relief when Sloane showed up. I didn’t even mind that De Lucci was with her.
He seemed amused as he absorbed the scene.
“Quite a pickle you landed yourself in, Zahkarov.”
“Don’t tease,” Sloane said. “I’ve shot you before, remember?”
Her husband scowled at her. “I had the sense to wear a bulletproof vest.”
That Trevor guy appeared behind them and gave a low whistle. “Damn, these De Lucci women are fierce.”
“Yeah, don’t mess with them.” Sloane approached and set her kit on the table.
Lucy made the introductions. I was too pissed at the situation to stand on any civilities.
While the others spoke, De Lucci’s wife worked on me. “The bleeding has almost stopped. You’re lucky the bullet didn’t damage any major arteries.”
“I was just trying to fire off a warning shot.” Lucy disengaged from her conversation with the others to look over Sloane’s shoulder. “He moved.”
“Excuse me if I was trying not to get shot.”
The more I thought about it, the more I gnashed my teeth at how close my wife had come to killing me. She could have severed my jugular or worse, shot me in the head.
Sloane rolled her lips together as her eyes met mine. She was thinking exactly the same thing, and she found it fucking hilarious, judging from her attempts to stifle her grin.
De Lucci joined us. “You’re not pawning another one of your bleeding-heart projects off on me.”
“I’m not her project, and I haven’t agreed,” Shotgun Chloe said.
“Remember the last time?” De Lucci gritted. “You landed me in the FBI interrogation room?”
I couldn’t help chuckling. It was a glorious reminder that no one in organized crime was safe from my wife’s crusade against us.
“I wouldn’t be laughing, Zahkarov,” De Lucci said. “You’re married to her.”
“Exactly. She’s my problem.”
“I can’t bring her home to my house—” Lucy started.
“Because we’re going on vacation.”
Her head whipped to mine. “We still are?”
“Yes. You didn’t think a little gunshot nick from my wife was going to stop me?”
