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Donnacha
“Your wife is psychotic.”
I look up, a deep groan already brewing under my rib cage.
“Right. The elevator doors have just pinged open. I haven’t even stepped inside my house yet. It’s been a long fucking night in the Tunnels, and all I want to do is sit on the sofa with a glass of whiskey in one hand, my balls in the other, and watch the soccer game highlights. Why do I have a feeling you’re about to ruin that for me?”
Ronan looks over his shoulder, a cut on his forehead catching the low light as he turns. “You don’t really have a sofa to touch your balls on anymore, boss.”
Grinding my back molars, I push past him and step into my penthouse. Former penthouse, I should say. Now, it looks like a squat den in a Harlem walk-up. Sofas slashed. Fine china smashed. I’m almost waiting for a crackhead to round the corner with a needle hanging out of their arm.
“What happened here?” I ask each syllable leaving my lips with poison.
“Your wife happened,” he grunts. “Where did you pick her up from again? The feral mutt center?”
My eyes slash to him, flashing him a warning sign.
“Romy did this?”
“And this.” He points at the cut on his head. “This too,” he adds, tugging up his shirt to reveal a homemade wound dressing. “I’m telling you, boss. She’s nuts.”
I stare at his wounds in disbelief. Something stinks. Ronan is my second in command. He’s got the speed of a panther, the accuracy of an American eagle, and the ruthlessness of a black mamba. Yet this hooker who can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet managed to hit him twice?
“I told you to watch her.”
He snorts. “That girl can watch herself.”
“Where is she?”
He jerks his head in the direction of the living room area. Over the top of my ruined couch, I make out the outline of a head.
I clench my fists. Harden my jaw. “Go take the night watch in the lobby,” I say icily. “I’ll deal with you tomorrow.”
He nods silently, knowing better than to push my buttons, and disappears behind the elevator doors.
My glare roasts the back of her head as I gather my thoughts and weigh my options.
I could take the easy route and throw my weight around, show her that in my city, I’m the boss. But years of scaring people for a living have taught me a few things about fear. Storming in with your guns blazing is scary, but being calm?
It’s terrifying.
I pop my knuckles and crack my neck, releasing all of the anger I was going to direct toward my new wife. I slowly slide off my jacket, taking my time to fold it and lay it over an armchair. Then I stride into the living area and perch on the arm of the sofa at the opposite end of Romy. Her feet are tucked up underneath her, and she’s staring at the television. It’s on mute, and I know she’s not watching whatever shit is playing because her knuckles whiten around the whiskey bottle she’s holding.
I’m the first to slice through the heavy silence.
“Have a good day, wifey?”
Her jaw locks. Without taking her eyes off the screen, she brings the bottle to her lips and slugs. Damn. Drinking whiskey straight from the bottle without so much as a wince. I’m beginning to think that Ronan is right.
My wife is nuts.
As if finding her in a hotel room with a dead Danny English wasn’t enough of a clue.
But she also happens to be smoking hot.
Her silver hair shimmers under the recessed lights, the dark roots running along her part the only clue she’s not a fucking unicorn. Porcelain skin ready to be broken and a little button nose that the monster in me wants to bite.
I’m sure I’ll get the chance.
