Page 24 of Guilty as Sin

And I wanted to wield that unfairness for myself, so I could use it against people like my father.

It’s not that I hate the mafia for its manipulations and violence and cutthroat cruelty—far from it. I hate the mafia for excluding women from those crucial, thrilling, empowering elements. For excluding my mother. For excluding me.

Across the round table, Orla and Brioni finally let go of each other’s hands. Brioni doesn’t belong in this manipulative world, but Orla’s been in it for decades.

Not just living, but thriving.

From what I’ve seen from her work so far, Orla’s mostly behind the scenes, but she’s incredibly efficient at what she does. And when she’s on the scene, in a room with her powerful husband, she’s at his right-hand side. Holding her own.

When I try to picture myself at Brady’s side, I scoff inwardly. There’s no way he’ll ever treat me as an equal like that, and besides, I don’t want to stay anywhere close to him.

I want to wield my own power in this misogynist mafia world.

Chapter 11

Brady

I find my wife back at our penthouse, directing men with boxes. She’s appropriated both guest rooms for herself. But that’s no problem. I give it a week before she’s sleeping in my bed.

And more than just sleeping.

The way Cora’s talking to my men, you’d think she spent the past ten years as a hard-assed construction foreman. But my men don’t complain. They all treat her with the utmost respect, as damn well they should. Not one of them ogles her. Despite how great her ass looks in those jeans.

When she catches sight of me, she gives me the barest nod. Ah, so we’re back to that. No matter. Tonight will teach her the importance of respecting me.

She glances at the garment bag I’m carrying, and I hold it out to her.

“For you.”

“No, thank you,” she snips, turning away.

I dismiss my men with a wave of my hand. If she wants to play difficult, the woman can unpack her own damn boxes. I follow her uninvited into what she believes is her bedroom.

It’s a decent-sized room, contemporary and decorated in white and gray. Neutral colors. But, despite what Cora may think, it’s not a neutral space. This is only our penthouse because I’m allowing her here. And because calling it our penthouse so clearly pisses her off.

I toss the garment bag on the bed, beside a pile of wooden hangers.

“For you,” I say, more insistent this time.

She glares at me before unzipping the bag. Inside is a sexy red dress, nice and conspicuous. I selected it with this evening in mind, a special gift for her. She makes a noise of disgust.

“For tonight,” I tell her.

“I’m unpacking tonight.” She seizes one of the hangers from the bed and proceeds to unfold a stack of shirts.

“Unpack later. We’re going to dinner tonight, you and me.”

“There’s nothing on the schedule about dinner tonight.” She hangs up the first of her shirts in the closet, her back to me. So she is obeying everything on the schedule. She’s just not obeying me. Yet.

“There is now.” I watch her grab another wooden hanger. When she turns away, I pick up a hanger myself. Chuckling, I run my thumb over my hotel’s carved logo.

Bold woman, pilfering upscale amenities like that. A planner, too. She must’ve thought about what she’d need at the penthouse before leaving the hotel.

She turns around, ready to protest, then sees the hanger in my hand. She stiffens, caught red-handed.

“Dinner. Tonight. Consider it a punishment.” I punctuate this by slapping the wooden hanger against my palm. Thwack. I watch Cora carefully, expecting her to flinch. Instead, her eyes go wide, and her cheeks turn the faintest bit red. Holy shit. Good for me.

“Punishment for what?” She holds her chin high, but her voice quavers.