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“What about slot C?”
His cell phone rings before I can answer. He sighs and pulls it out, looking at the screen. “It’s Isaac.”
“Take it. I’m not going anywhere.”
He places a kiss on my lips and slides out from under my legs before answering, opening the glass doors to the deck, and heading outside. I curl my legs underneath me and stroke my stomach as my daughter rolls around beneath my palm.
I watch Vice through the window as he talks on the phone to Isaac. He’s dressed in nothing but sweatpants and a white T-shirt, his tattoos on display, making me drool a little. The man is so fucking hot he could make a nun volunteer to deep-throat him.
I think about Isaac, who is now running the casino with Conner. The casino is still as popular as ever, but with Aldo and Vigo out of the way, things are running much smoother. Still, I miss having both Isaac and Conner here. Sunday dinners aren’t enough.
It has been nearly two years since I was shot. Two years. I’m not sure I would have made it through without them. Vice may have been my rock, but his men were my safe space to land, reining him in when he needed it.
As hard as it’s been for me to lose such a huge chunk of my life, it was harder for Vice. The woman he loved was gone, and in her place was a shell of a woman who ran a gamut of mood swings from depressed to homicidal.
But somehow, we made it through. We’d never be conventional. Vice is probably the only man on the planet to hand his hormonal wife a knife and a victim to play with. Of course, the victims were shitty humans, but I doubt a jury would see it that way. I knew I wasn’t quite right in the head. My impulse controlwas shot to shit, and the sight of blood seemed to give me the urge to finger-paint.
For anyone else, I would have been too much. But Vice is far from sane himself. We’re broken as fuck, but we fit together in the most perfectly unperfect way.
And I’d rather be broken with him than whole with anyone else.
