“No. Still have a couple of four-man teams always covering her.”
“Uh-huh.” Doc grabs a pen out of the cup on his desk and starts tapping it on his chin. “You don’t think eight armed and professionally trained men are enough?”
“Nine. Her driver is ex-Special Forces.” That goddamn tapping is getting annoying. “Besides, I prefer being thorough. It wouldn’t look good if my second wife ends up dead, too.”
“Yes, of course. So, if the explosion at the church was an act of sabotage, do you think your rhymey messenger might be responsible?”
“Maybe. It’s hard to understand his intentions. The more I consider his motivation, the less everything makes sense. For the longest time, his focus has been on my businesses. That made me think it could be a competitor, maybe someone with a personal ax to grind. But then the thing with the license plates happened, and another syndicate got involved. So I figured it could be someone from a rival crime family. Some asshole trying to get the Russians to hit one of my shipments, start a feud between Cosa Nostra and Bratva. Only…the rhymey fucker switched to threatening Iris soon after. Which again left me with no clue about who he is or what he wants.”
“Well, I see why you feel the need to be more vigilant, going as far as stalking your wife. But have you considered simply accompanying her when she goes out instead? It would give you a chance to—I don’t know—talk, maybe.”
“I don’t want to talk to her.”
“Why not?”
Because I can’t stop staring at her lips. Or forget how they felt on mine. Her taste. How her body trembled at my touch. The softness of her skin. I barely managed not to devour her, right there on the kitchen island, that first morning at home. All because we…talked.
Months… Months of being alone with her in that room at the Annex, listening to her melodic voice while getting to know her and her most intimate secrets, falling deeper and deeper under her spell. Months of slowly succumbing to my obsession, having it morph and bloom into something else. Months of having her right there, within reach, but forbidden to touch. Because I promised I wouldn’t.
Denial is a powerful thing. Not only in the sense of exercising my self-control, but also as a refusal to admit the truth. All that time, I’ve rationalized this. Convinced myself that I sought her out, craved her nearness, merely to ease my pain. A lie. An excuse to keep my heart safe. That previously ignored muscle, good only for pumping blood. Now, it beats for her. Not that I can say it out loud. Not that I could ever let her know. Or anyone else, for that matter. I can barely admit it to myself.
But the truth is undeniable, because now, she’s closer than ever to me. In my home. My wife. Finally, she is mine. But I still can’t touch her. I dare not. She doesn’t want me. Wouldn’t welcome my touch. She’d rather havehim. The man she considers “good,” one who does nice things for other people.Like, give a damn about a few individuals losing their homes, or care about some old woman’s sadness over a broken teacup, enough to waste his valuable time on finding the replacement.Thatman doesn’t exist. He never has.Heis the mask I wear, not the other way around.
At last, I understand what Bartholomew meant by his world being better because of his love for his wife. When Little Iris is around, my own isn’t a wasteland anymore. She makes everything in it brighter. A cut above. The land. The sky. The people.
I wish she could improve me, too.
Because I am in love with my wife, the most wonderful woman I know. The most incredible. The most breathtaking. But unfortunately, I am still the same man. Still cruel. Still ruthless. Still evil. And whatever good deed I did, I did it for her. Only for her. Not for anyone else. I’m incapable of caring about anyone else.
And my Little Iris could never love a man like that. Could never love me.
“Let’s talk about something else,” I say.
“Alright. How are your headaches? Especially since you’re not with Iris that much?”
Worse than ever. I’ve been surviving on sheer willpower and enough ibuprofen to kill a horse.“They are fine.”
“Really? That’s great!”
My teeth nearly crack.
“So?” he blurts. “When am I going to meet your magic migraine blocker? We didn’t get the chance for a face-to-face at the wedding, after all.”
My eyes turn into slits. “You want to meet my wife? Why?”
He raises his hands into the air. “Down, boy, no need for violence. I’m simply curious if she really is as you describe her.”
“How did I describe her?”
“Well, let me see… Based on the crumbs you dropped over the past months, I imagine her as someone nice. Softly spoken. A bit skittish, maybe. Overall, there’s nothing overly intriguing about her. Have I got it right?”
Everything about Iris is intriguing.
She’s selfless. Gives to people without expecting anything in return. Won’t even accept a gift unless she feels she’s earned it. What kind of silly creature does that?
You could not be more wrong, old man.
“To a tee,” I bite out.
