“They're going to try anyway. Riccardo especially.”
“I know.”
She’s quiet for a few more blocks and stares out the window at the buildings and trees zipping past.
“The thing you did,” she says. “When Riccardo stood up. The way you moved close to me.”
“What about it?”
She turns her head toward me. “You didn't say anything. You just... appeared.”
“Didn't need to say anything.”
“No.” She's watching me. I can feel her curious eyes boring into me. “You didn't.”
I keep my eyes on the road. “He was too close. You had it handled, but he was too close. I didn’t like it, and I’m not gonna let that kind of bullshit power play slide.” I glance at her as Islow for a red light. “You're my wife. On paper, at least. That means something. Maybe not to you, not yet. But it means something to men like Riccardo. If I let him crowd you without consequence, it's a signal that says you're not protected. And fuck anyone who ever thinks that about you.”
Her jaw drops, and when she realizes it, she snaps her lips closed. Sitting up straight in the seat, she says, “I don't need protection.”
“I know you don't. But they need to know that if they come for you, they go through me first. That's not about you being weak. It's about them understanding the cost.”
“Thank you," she says in a softer voice. “For not stepping in. For letting me handle it.”
“It was your meeting.”
“Some men wouldn't have seen it that way.”
“I'm not some men.” I grin. “What more do I have to do to convince you of that?”
She watches me for a while after that, turning the question over in her mind, no doubt. She doesn’t answer, but out of the corner of my eye, I can see her shoulders relax.
Must be new for her, someone having her back, no questions asked.
When we get back to the penthouse, I’ve barely parked the car before she jumps out. She rushes to the elevator, and I have to break out into a jog to make it inside before the doors close.
Once we’re inside, she kicks off her heels and walks straight to the bathroom. Even Reaper can’t catch up, she’s moving so fast.
“I need a minute,” she calls out. Then the door closes and the lock clicks.
I stand in the hallway, running a hand through my hair. The water turns on. But it’s more than just the spray I hear.
Stepping closer, I strain my ears. She's not crying. I'm pretty damn sure that Adriana DiMicheli doesn't cry. But something else is going on in there. Maybe this is how she handles adversity.Maybe it’s her process. Screaming shit she needs to get off her chest while the shower runs.
I wait.
After a few minutes, I go to the kitchen and start the coffee maker. It isn’t long before the rich scent fills the air. I pour her a cup and leave it on the kitchen island.
When she walks out of the bathroom, she stops and looks at the mug, then at me.
“You didn't have to do that,” she murmurs.
“I know. But you had a pretty early morning. I figured you could use the caffeine.”
She nods, picks up the cup, and takes a sip. Her eyes float closed for a second and she lets out a deep breath.
“They're going to regret underestimating you,” I say.
Adriana opens her eyes. “Is that a prediction or a threat to them?”
