“What’s that look for?”
I shake my head. “Last time it ‘got quiet,’ Parker was shot and I was…”taken.
The silent word hangs between us like stringy, invisible smoke. Saying it makes it a reality. Saying it recognizes I was weak. Saying it means my system is flawed. I failed somewhere. Targeted or not.
Johnny’s dark eyes bounce around my office, not exactly landing anywhere they need to be until they finally fixate on me again. He blinks, then sniffs with a shake of his head, standing tall. “You know, Boss, I saw the numbers from Wales… the ones they lost were far more than the ones we lost.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “You know, my nonna used to say sometimes you get shit on once a year. It balances the universe or somethin’.”
I scoff with a shake of my head, remembering his nonna, Vicki. She was one of the first dancers at Inferno after my grandfather, Alessio, won it from some Syndicate prick in a poker game back in the 50s. She was a spitfire. Kind… but mouthy. “Yeah? Good ol’ Vicki O’Hannigan told ya that, huh?”
Johnny jerks his chin to the photograph of my grandfather, his Betty Boop lookalike nonna, and Dahlia Collins taken after one of the biggest nights of their lives. Alessio once told me it was their best performance, even though they were both choking on lies. If you look closely at the picture, the smile doesn’t match the worry in their eyes. He lifts a shoulder and lets it drop. “Your grandfather trusted her… maybe you should, too.”
He turns to walk out of my office. “Quietdon’t always mean bad, Boss. Just means the chaos has been controlled. For now. And after everything your wife has been through… don’t you think it’s about time? Don’t you think she deserves to rest? Kinda feels like she earned it, don’t it? I mean, it can’t be easy being married to a Don-slash-Pakhan. Anyway, since you’re here, I’m going to lunch.” The door shuts behind him with a smallclick,and his footsteps grow faint.
With a sigh, I get to my feet, finally feeling the bruises from this morning along with the guilt that’s been weighing me down for weeks. I go to the elevator and step inside, close the wrought iron door, and hit the button to take me down to the lowest floor. I look through the glass of each floor, each one a black void since Eden doesn’t open until this evening. The elevator’s whirring halts just as it’s reached my final destination—my dungeon.
It still smells faintly of bleach from the last clean-up the crew did. I blink a few times as the bright lights turn on one by one. The silence is unnerving, and it pushes against my eardrums. I ignore it with a clear of my throat and a sniff. No noise beyond the ones I make is heard. I finally get to the small office with the en suite shower and do as I need to do. I peel off my clothes, shower, and get into a clean suit. All the while images of Sabrina’s frowns lately flit through my mind.
I glance at the mirror before flicking the light back off. I have a shiner on my cheekbone, my jaw, and let’s not forget my black eye or my busted lip. “Shit,” I sigh into the empty room.
I flick off the light, lock the door, and shove my hands in my pockets.
Readying myself to face my wife.
The scent of gingerbread, sugar, and what I think is cranberry and pecans invades my senses as soon as I walk through the front door. Christmas carols play lightly in the background, and I know exactly where to find my wife. I step through the foyer and shove my gym bag in the coat closet, shirk off my coat, hang it up, then toe off my shoes. I don't see Parker anywhere. It’s like he’s been a ghost, too. Or maybe it’s all in my head and I'm just drifting, seeing what I want to see.
Sabrina stands at the kitchen island, wearing a black long-sleeved shirt she’s pushed up to her elbows. Well, I guess it is in my head. Parker sits at the breakfast nook reading the paper, not saying a word. She’s muttering to herself, reading a recipe with her glasses on, hair up in a messy bun on her head. She hasn’t worn pink in days. It’s been darker shades of blue, black, or beige. When she curls into bed, she sleeps as far away from me as possible. It’s worse than when I first forced her to start sleeping in my room.
Back then, I used to find her asleep on the floor. That was an easy fix. I’d pick her up and put her in bed with me. Then it seemed like it was the only way either of us could sleep—her tucked into my side or close enoughto feel the warmth radiating off of each other. When we first came back, she at least slept with her arm out, an open invitation to grab her and tuck her in where she belongs. And like a fuckingcazzo,I didn’t. I couldn’t. Ican’t.
Parker clocks me first, mismatched eyes following me as he sets down the paper and takes a sip of his afternoon coffee. On the dining table behind him is what can only be described as a mountain of cookies. How long have I been gone? There’s a static tension in the air, like right before a lightning storm begins.
Sabrina looks up, green eyes tracing my face, and her brows furrow. “What the fuck happened toyou?”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Sabrina.
Maksim stands tall with nothing but guilt on his bruised face. I don’t know if I'm allowed to be angry with him. I don’t know what I can or can’t say. He hasn’t touched me. He hasn’t kissed me. He’s back to grunting at me, and all he does is stare listlessly at walls. The first night my hives were gone, I wore the skimpiest negligee I owned to seduce him, but he was already asleep by the time I got into bed.
Parker’s been… quiet as well.
I don’t know how to approach him anymore without it feeling like I'm nagging him. We’re all walking on eggshells around each other. It’s so much worse than before. At least when Maksim disgusted me, he made conversation—grunts included.
So yes, my husband is standing tall with his shoulders squared and chin lifted, dark eyes peering down his nose at me in his stupid suit that makes him look twice as menacing as he approaches. He is so beautiful it haunts me. His hands come up and his busted lips part, but I take a step back and I put my hand up for him to not come closer. He does not deserve to crowd me when he’s left me feeling invisible and worse—–unimportant. “What are you doing?”
He sighs loudly, likeI’mthe one who’s the issue, and maybe I am. But I don't know how to fix it because I'm scared that whatever happened in Wales broke something in my husband’s psyche, and his physical and emotional retreat is his way of wanting things to go back to the way things were before the stupid motherfucker made me fall in love with him. Damn my stupid heart. I’ve damned myself because I do not love with my heart. I love with my entire soul. And that… is what makes me fucking toxic.
Those dark eyes of his with microscopic hints of green search mine, and I shake my head. He runs the tip of his tongue along his bottom lip, over the swollen cut, before tucking it between his teeth. Maksim looks to the side, out the window, before he faces me again. “I trained with Niko this morning. Things got heated.”
He didn’ttrainwith Niko. He let himself get the shit kicked out of him and then laughed. I know because Niko called me. “No gloves,” he said. I look down at his hands, not seeing any of his knuckles bloody or bruised. I was hoping it had been a lie, but it seems my husband is the liar. “And after?”
“I went to the office.”
“For sixhours?”
He closes his eyes like he’s losing his patience with me; the slight cuts deeper than it should. It opens another wound above so many others, and I don’t know if I can handle any more. I’m going to bleed out frantically. “Then I drove around.”
That’s how it starts, isn’t it? The physical and emotional distance, then lies, then… what? Someone at the club that looks just right in a tight dress, and I mean, he hasn’t fucked me, so obviously he’ll get it from whatever bombshell throws herself at him at the right moment. Ugh, God—and there are so many beautiful women who patron and work at Eden. My blood slows and whooshes in my ears at the thought of another bitch on him, but let’s be honest, I went into this marriage knowing I would be getting cheated on eventually. And I can't even complain. I have no room to talk. I have Parker. It wouldn’t be fair of me to ask Maksim for exclusivity when I have them both. But the thought of him with another woman, of smelling another woman’s perfume on him, of another woman earning his smile, hiscum—makes my stomach recoil in hurt and disgust. I can’t handle this. Christ, I think I would rather him be kidnapped again than know he’s out with other women. I’m so fucked. I am so fucked up. I can’t do this. “I think you need to go to the penthouse.”
