Page 59 of Married to the Devil

But this is the legit world and I have to play by different rules.

“Wally, this is bizarre.”

“I’m so sorry, Dora.” He gets up, glancing around nervously. “Mr. Corvino, nice to meet you. Please, take care, okay?”

Wallace Wayne hurries out of there, walking so fast he almost bumps into our server bringing coffee for another table.

“What the fuck was that, Dora?”

She grimaces as she skims the docs we were given. “I’m not sure. These aren’t that strange. Standard stuff. Request to push closing back a few weeks… diligence turned up some minor problems and now they want the cash allocation changed… insurance stuff… nothing crazy. I don’t get it.” She snaps the folder closed.

“They’re spooked.” I say it through my teeth. “And we both know why.”

“We don’t, and I don’t want the details.” Theodora rises, adjusting her skirt. “I want it fixed, that’s all.”

I give her a flat stare as I place cash down on the table. “Are you in a position to make demands of me, Dora?”

For a moment, I think she might try to argue. But she flushes and dips her chin. “Sorry, Rafe.”

“Good.” I slide from my seat and stand. “I will look into this. You keep the lawyers happy.”

“That’s my specialty.”

We part ways on the sidewalk. I instruct two of my men to follow her and the other two will stay with me. I get back in the car and have the driver head out toward New Jersey.

It’s an hour to the house, which means I have time to kill, sitting alone in the back seat.

Two problems war for my attention. There’s the deal and this mysterious problem. Someone’s trying to make trouble, and I’d bet both my kidneys that it’s the same person who left that photograph of Hattie and June on my desk.

Which leads into the other issue.

My god damn wife.

I knew she wasn’t happy and I couldn’t blame her. She was essentially kidnapped and blackmailed into marrying me and living on my property. It was only natural that she’d push against the boundaries of her situation.

But it still hurt when she tried to take my daughter away.

Which is strange, if I’m honest. I’ve lived for years knowing about Hattie, but it didn’t kill me not being with her. I did what I could for them from afar, writing checks, moving money through various shell companies, finding creative ways to get that cash to them without being too obvious. All without endangering them—or that’s what I thought.

But now my daughter’s been under my roof for a couple weeks and I can’t imagine her anywhere else.

It’s the small things. Waking up with June at my side. Feeling my wife breathe. Sneaking out to find Hattie waiting at her door, taking her down to the kitchen, making her breakfast. She’s a part of my morning routine now, as reliable as coffee, and much funnier. We talk about ponies, about what shows she watched, the art projects she’s thinking about, whatever she wants. The girl knows how to talk and talk, and I’m good at listening.

Her little voice is my favorite sound in the world.

Only slightly above the sound her mother makes when she comes on my tongue.

Probably not two sounds I should be mixing in my head.

The driver reaches the Walt Whitman Bridge. Traffic is light, which is good. I’m not paying attention as we glide toward the center of the span, the Delaware rolling lazily beneath us, massive container ships lined up at the port.

How did it pain me so much when June tried to escape? Was I really starting to believe we were a family?

That’s my last thought before the truck rams us.

Metal crashes against metal. Plastic bends and scrapes. The driver curses as I’m tossed sideways, the world lurching. My shoulder hits the glass and my head knocks my arm, and I barely hold on as our car is pushed up against the guardrail.

Sparks fly, screaming wildly. The driver slams on the brakes, yanking me against my seatbelt. The truck careens ahead, gray smoke flaring from its wheels as it comes around, screeching to a halt.