Saint lifts a brow, looking grim. “Which now seems poised to happen anyway.”
“Right. So, what do we do about it?”
“We need to go on the offensive with the Bratva,” Priest says. “They’re playing a game with us, and I don’t fucking like it.”
I don’t disagree with any of that.
I nod. “What do you have in mind?”
“They recently opened a new sex club on the border of our territory. That’s a bit too close for comfort. I think it’s time to use some of their own tricks against them.”
“Such as?” Saint asks.
“Kaboom,” Lucky says.
Priest grins. “Exactly.”
Katya
Exhausted,I return the roller to the pan and stare at my handiwork, pleased with myself. The formerly white walls in my husband’s primary bedroom are now a bright, tropical shade of pink. He’s going to hate it on sight.
Enzo wants to leave me behind and act like I can’t be trusted to know where he’s going or why? Tells me to settle in like a good wife?
Fine.
I may like his dominance in the bedroom, but when we’re fully clothed and nothing sexual is going on, I’m not about to let him get away with his arrogant Mafia kingpin bullshit. Nope. We’re equal partners. I’m not going to be patted on the head like an annoying kid too immature to understand the real world.
This is a two-way street.
Currently, a Flamingo’s-Pink-Paradise-colored street.
And that’s just the tip of this little iceberg.
Turns out, Antonio really did have a credit card at his disposal with my name on it. I put it to very good use today, and I still haven’t reached my limit. But there’s always tomorrow.
Antonio was a good sport. He even waited with me while the paint was mixed and carried it dutifully through the store.
“You have a plan for this, Mrs. Andriani?” he asked in a respectful tone as we returned to Enzo’s apartment and he delivered my goodies for me.
“Sure do,” I told him brightly. “By the way, Mr. Andriani wanted me to order dinner in this evening for him. Is there anything he doesn’t like, so I know what to avoid?”
“He hates sushi,” Antonio helpfully supplied.
I’ve got dinner waiting in the fridge from a Japanese restaurant on the corner—one of every sushi roll on their menu—along with a nice bottle of sake and some miso soup I can heat when Enzo gets back.
My new phone dings from where I abandoned it across the room on a gorgeous dresser I’ve splattered with pink paint.
The screen is lit up.
Marito: I’ll be home in ten.
I assume that’s Enzo, preprogrammed into my contacts for me. But just to be sure, I swipe to a search engine and type inmarito.
“Husband in Italian,” I read out loud.
Then I roll my eyes and tap out my response.
Katya: See you soon.
