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I’m the first to break our silence, desperate to know whether he approves or not of my decision. “Okay, would you just fucking say something?”
“Not until you excuse your little harlot.”
Rolling my eyes, I brush Siena away, tossing her the dress I stripped off her not long after dragging her up here. She pulls it over her head, taking the hint, stiletto heels clacking against the hardwood floor as she exits the room.
My father clears his throat. “What would you like me to say, son? That you’re royally fucking up here? Forcing this girl to marry you, just to stick it to Ivers?”
“I’m notforcingher to do shit. It was a suggestion, and she accepted. Almost immediately. Makes me wonder what the fuck is going on at home.”
“Whatever’s going on at home is none of your concern. We have much bigger problems, now that someone’s stealing from our direct supply in the warehouse. Or did you forget we’re missing product?”
I roll my eyes. “Of course, not.”
“Then why aren’t you focusing on that? I know for a fact that Giacomo and Marco have rounded up several men as leads, and I’m told you haven’t interrogated a single one.”
“Idon’t do that. That’s what Gia and Kal are for.”
“Kal isn’t even in town.”
Swallowing, I swirl my fingertip along the rim of my glass. “All right, we’ll put Marco on it.”
My father leans forward, leveling me with a steely gaze. It doesn’t scare me, per se, but my spine does sit up a little straighter. His nostrils flare, a clear indication that he’s pissed.
Well, join the club. I propose to a woman, and she gives me a fake fucking number. As if I wouldn’t be able to find her, regardless.
That’s my exact plan when I leave the club tonight, but my father’s interference is ticking me off. I don’t need micromanaging.
“You know, son, how a man leads his men says a lot about what kind of husband he’ll make. Are you sure you’re up for that particular task? Because your disinterest in being involved with the business, and your immaturity tell me you’re not ready for any of it. Maybe I should call Rafe down here and have him dissolve the outfit, take the rest back to Boston with him.”
I clench my jaw, my fingers balling into a fist at my side. It takes more effort than I’m willing to admit not to snap, take his throat in my hands, and demand to know what he thinks of the kind of husband he was—allowing his wife to be murdered while his son sat there, helpless.
But I can’t. I don’t want to dredge up the memories, hash out sins past. My mother haunts me regularly; I can only hope she does him as well.
“Maybe you should.” I shrug instead, forcing nonchalance.
I can tell he isn’t expecting my response, and it makes my chest cave with the weight of how little he knows me. His brown eyes narrow, looking for a piece of my soul to penetrate. But my soul is tarred, black and thick, and in desperate need of redemption.
Too bad men like us don’t get that chance.
“What the hell’s gotten into you? That girl’s pussy cannotbethattight.”
Aside from the fact that I’ve merely tasted Caroline, the way he so blatantly disregards the woman I’ve chosen to be my wife grates on my nerves. “Pops, I get you’re used to doing things a certain way, but this ismyjob now.Mybusiness,mywife. And youwillrespect all of it.”
“Am I supposed to respect the several million dollars you wire transferred into Harrison’s account, as well?”
“It was a business transaction, just like anything else. I had to sweeten the pot so he’d hand Caroline over.”And to protect her sister.
A knock on the door jars us from our conversation, and Benito, my personal guard, pokes his bald head inside. “Giacomo for you, Boss.”
I wave him along, irritation spiking my blood. My father’s mouth presses into a thin, hard line, and he stands, exiting the room as Gia enters.
“Boss.” Giacomo Marelli’s large frame and buzzcut fill the doorway, blocking the view into the hallway behind him. Dressed in casual clothes, light-wash jeans, and a black sweater, like he isn’t the second-in-command to a fucking mafia boss. The only tell is the .22 strapped to his waist, mirroring my own weapon. He averts his eyes from my father’s retreating form, scratching at his forearm. “Am I interrupting?”
“Actually, you’re late.” I push back in my chair, settling behind the desk. Gia looks at me with narrowed eyes, shifting back onto his heels, appearing uncomfortable. I bristle. “What’s going on?”
He sighs, looking apologetic. “I guess that depends on what you want to hear first.”
“How many fucking problemsarethere?”
