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I grind my back molars as I slip my wallet into my blazer and stride past him. “Walk with me,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder and getting in the elevator.
He stands in the corner, hands behind his back, as we descend. We pass the thirtieth floor. Twentieth. Somewhere between twelve and eleven, I slam my fist against the emergency stop button.
The alarm sounds. Ronan’s radio crackles. One look from me, and he brings it to his lips, tells my men in the lobby to stand down, then reluctantly turns off the frequency dial.
“I haven’t seen you since you let my new wife beat you up.”
The scar on his forehead stretches as he grimaces. He runs a hand over his shaved hair and grunts, “I don’t know what to tell you, boss.”
“Try.”
Thick silence swirls between the four walls. Ronan lets it stretch out for a few beats before meeting my hard gaze.
“You know what I always say, boss? Drag anyone down to the Tunnels, tie ’em to a chair and brandish a pair of pliers in front of their face, and you’ll see their true character in an instant. Most people react in one of two ways. They piss their pants and beg for their life, or they fight till the death.”
I drag a knuckle through my beard. He’s right. “And which one of those categories does Romy fall in?”
His Adam’s apple bobs. “I said most people, boss. That lass—your wife, I mean, she’s…different.”
I cock a brow. Wait.
He swallows again. “The second you left, I saw something in her eyes. Something manic. I’ve only ever seen it a few times in my life.”
“Are you saying my wife is crazy, Ro?”
The sharpness in my question should give him pause for thought.
But his answer bounces back without hesitation. “I’m saying that if you tied her to a chair and brandished a pair of pliers in front of her face, she wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t fight, either. She’d open her mouth wide and invite you to extract every damn tooth in her head.”
I stare at the velvet wall above Ronan’s shoulder, drinking his analogy in. He’s my most trusted man, my confidant. When he talks, I listen.
“Can I be frank with you, boss?”
I offer a curt nod.
“I have a feeling there’s something more to her. Tell me, what twenty-something woman do you know that carries a pocket knife in their panties? Who can shoot through the fucking eye of a needle with a gun they’ve never used before?” His beefy hand brushes over his stomach. Over his latest wound. “She was too quick and too…prepared.” He licks his lips, then shakes his head. “And let’s not forget how you met.”
Yeah. We locked eyes for the first time over Danny English’s dead fucking body.
Silently, I punch the emergency button again, and the elevator whirs to life. Not another word is uttered until we step out into the rain, and my driver, Karl, opens the door to my Town Car.
Before I duck into it, I turn back to Ronan, who’s standing on the building steps. Droplets land on the planes of my shoulders with a dull thud, and some trickle down the back of my shirt collar.
“I had my lawyers do an extensive background check on her using the details on her passport. She’s Romy Daniels, twenty-four years old. Born in Ohio to a butcher and a nurse. Moved to New York to work in films, but it never panned out that way. Found herself short on rent, turned to Craigslist in desperation, and well, we both know what happened next.” There’s a knot in my throat. It tastes of unease and unanswered questions. “You’re my best man, Ro. Don’t get tangled up in the conspiracy of my wife just because you’re a little butt-hurt. Send up someone who can handle her instead. I need you on Belsky. We need to up our game and get some serious intel.”
Hardening his features, he nods. “On it, boss.”
I rake back my hair and slide into the car. Through the tinted window, my eyes never leave Ronan as we drive away.
If he’d been anyone else, I know my fist would have been around his throat the second he uttered Romy’s name, and I’d have choked the rest of his sentence out of his empty lungs. I don’t know why I feel so protective over her, but I fucking hate it. It’s a feeling that bubbles under my skin, hot and uncomfortable, and it makes me want to claw at my flesh for relief. I loosen my tie and pop my top button like I do after a long day.
It’s not even eight o’clock in the morning.
I close my eyes and rest my head against the wet window.
Even with her squeaky-clean background check, I know my wife has secrets. Dark ones that draw me to her like they are magnetic.
So why am I defending her?
And why is she such a goddamn savage?
