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I reach for the ignition button when a movement catches my attention from the corner of my gaze. I look up to find my husband’s Maserati screeching to a halt in front of us. He shoves open the door and jumps out. Michael isn’t wearing his suit jacket and his tie is askew. He races toward us.
"What is he doing here?" Xander scowls.
Michael raises his arm. I see his mouth move. I am not sure what he’s trying to say, but I want to show him how much I love this car, and how I am already able to drive it.
Xander turns to me, his face pale. "Don't do it," he yells, but I've already touched the ignition button. For a second nothing happens, then the entire car seems to erupt.
I glance up, see Michael’s face, as if from a distance, then everything goes dark.
To find out what happens next read Mafia War HERE
Read an excerpt from Summer & Sinclair’s story in The Billionaire’s Fake Wife
Summer
"Slap, slap, kiss, kiss."
"Huh?" I stare up at the bartender.
"Aka, there's a thin line between love and hate." He shakes out the crimson liquid into my glass.
"Nah." I snort. "Why would she allow him to control her, and after he insulted her?"
"It’s the chemistry between them." He lowers his head, "You have to admit that when the man is arrogant and the woman resists, it’s a challenge to both of them, to see who blinks first, huh?"
"Why?" I wave my hand in the air, "Because they hate each other?"
"Because," he chuckles, "the girl in school whose braids I pulled and teased mercilessly, is the one who I—"
"Proposed to?" I huff.
His face lights up. "You get it now?"
Yeah. No.A headache begins to pound at my temples. This crash course in pop psychology is not why I came to my favorite bar in Islington, to meet my best friend, who is—I glance at the face of my phone—thirty minutes late.
I inhale the drink, and his eyebrows rise.
"What?" I glower up at the bartender. "I can barely taste the alcohol. Besides, it’s free drinks at happy hour for women, right?"
"Which ends in precisely" he holds up five fingers, "minutes."
"Oh! Yay!" I mock fist pump. "Time enough for one more, at least."
A hiccough swells my throat and I swallow it back, nod.
One has to do what one has to do… when everything else in the world is going to shit.
A hot sensation stabs behind my eyes; my chest tightens. Is this what people call growing up?
The bartender tips his mixing flask, strains out a fresh batch of the ruby red liquid onto the glass in front of me.
"Salut." I nod my thanks, then toss it back. It hits my stomach and tendrils of fire crawl up my spine, I cough.
My head spins. Warmth sears my chest, spreads to my extremities. I can’t feel my fingers or toes. Good. Almost there. "Top me up."
"You sure?"
"Yes." I square my shoulders and reach for the drink.
