Page 65 of Guilty as Sin

“The man who attacked me?” she asks. “Is that where you were this afternoon?” She’s so matter-of-fact about it. She was raised as a mafia daughter, but she has the grit of the best mafia sons. Just like me.

“Yes,” I say. “And yes.”

“Did you already kill him?”

“Yes.”

“Damn.” She looks genuinely disappointed, as if she’d wanted to kill the man herself.

My deliciously violent Cora.

I’m struck again by her straightforwardness about it all. She’d been ready to commit murder without a second thought.

Because she’s done it before.

The realization strikes like a loud snap in my mind. Another piece of my wife clicking into place.

“How old were you when you first killed a man?” I ask, nonchalant. I’m pleased to see her look surprised.

“Sixteen,” she says. The same age as my first kill.

“What was his sin? Did he hurt you?” Anger courses through me at the very thought.

“He hurt Connor. Almost drowned him in a locker room toilet.”

She’s fucking serious about protecting her brother. It takes me too long to remember—that’s the whole reason she’s married to me.

She’s not insatiable. She was bluffing. Scheming her way to get into the basement as soon as I told her it’s off-limits. Scheming her way to share in my power when I’d caught her stealing from me red-handed. Stubborn, clever, underhanded woman. Trying to weaken me by strengthening herself. Trying to use sex to manipulate me.

Her mistake. That’s my area of expertise.

Chapter 29

Cora

I was an idiot to beg on my knees like that. That’s not how you gain respect from a man like Brady O’Sullivan.

When we get back to the penthouse in the small hours of the morning, I have a choice to make. Go back to my own room, which would look like retreat. Or sleep in Brady’s room like his true partner. He didn’t agree to treat me like his equal, but I didn’t expect him to, not right away. Hardheaded mafia man that he is, he’s not going to instantly share power with anyone, especially not a woman.

I just needed to plant the idea.

I decide to bide my time, to let Brady muse about what it might be like to have me at his side. I bid him a succinct goodnight, then return to my room. After I’ve changed into pajamas and brushed my teeth, I sit on the edge of my bed, watching the closed door. Even though the mattress is expensively plush, my pussy is too sore to sit like this for long.

The way Brady works my body is so exquisitely, painfully pleasurable. No man has ever given me anything close to that before. Between all the grueling schoolwork and late-night serving shifts to make ends meet, I didn’t have time for real dating until after we opened the clinic. I satisfied my needs with the occasional one-night stand, which were easy enough to keep discreet.

But as always, the connection was lacking for Samantha Greene.

I’m not sure I can call what Brady and I have a connection, not in the gooey traditional sense. But it’s become something more than just a shared penthouse and a signed piece of paper. I didn’t want this marriage, but it’s obvious I can use it to my advantage. If only Brady will let me in.

I stare at the closed door, shifting uncomfortably. When no knock comes for several minutes, I realize how pathetic I’m being. I flick off the lights and climb beneath the luxurious sheets. Even after a few nights in this bed, my overstuffed down pillow is too new to be comfortable. I punch it, then punch it again.

Telling Brady I wanted to be his partner was foolish. I punch the pillow harder. By letting him know my deepest desires, I’ve made myself vulnerable. To him. If the idea I’ve planted doesn’t take root, I’m worse off than I started. I punch the pillow as hard as I can, then flop down onto it. I have to be smarter than this.

I am smarter than this.

* * *

A few mornings after Brady gives me the switchblade, I wake up with a fun idea.