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“I’m not doing it for that fucker,” I reply, running my hands through my hair. “I’m doing it for my wife. I can replace the money, but I can’t replace her.” Or her heart if one of her sisters dies.
“Holy shit.” Luca’s eyes widen, and a shit-eating grin takes over his face.
I wave my hand dismissively. “She’s my wife, you idiot.”
He continues to smirk.
“Shut up and make sure nothing happens to her.” I toss him the keys to the front door. “I’ll be back in a few hours. If she sneaks out, you’re sleeping outside in the cold until at least one of your fingers gets frostbite and falls off.”
“Having you as a cousin is so fun,” he mutters, twirling the keys around his finger.
I flip him off, slap the hood of the Escalade before slipping inside, and drive to the club.
After I recorded the best porn ever with my wife, we came home. She yawned a good twenty-five times on the drive. When I told her I had a few problems to take care of, I was surprised she hadn’t argued and thrown out a reason about not trusting me. Instead, she said she would watchBuffyand then probably crash before making it through an episode.
My throat turns dry at the thought of her not trusting me.
It’s my fault.
I regret what I did at our engagement party.
Deep down, I worry she’ll always see me as that guy.
We had no loyalty toward each other. Neomi swore we’d never be anything but married strangers. But now, the thought of touching another woman makes my skin crawl.
I need to convince Neomi of that.
I call Tommaso, but it goes to voicemail. We texted earlier. I instructed him to tell Sammie he’d have half the money but not tell him—oranyone else—where he was getting it. Traveling with such a large amount of money in cash is dangerous. He replied that Sammie said to call him as soon as he had the money, and he’d be there.
My first stop is the club. I swerve into my designated parking space, nod to the guard at the door, and head straight for my office. Locking the door behind me, I key the password into the hidden keypad on the bookshelf. The front of the bookcase swings open, revealing a secret door, and I input another password before entering the safe room. Four floor-to-ceiling safes line the long wall. The other wall holds shelves of weapons, and file cabinets are on the other. This room is the FBI’s wet dream.
I grab a black duffel bag from the floor, open the safe, and pack the cash inside the bag. It takes two bags to fit all the money. Even though I try to appear as discreet as possible, anyone walking out of a club with two large bags looks suspect. When I return to the Escalade, I shove the bags underneath the passenger seat and call Tommaso again.
No answer.
The fuck?
With his earlier desperation, I figured he’d be waiting by the phone for my call. Annoyance hits me as I drive to his townhome. If he’s partying, assuming he’s off the hook now that I’m helping him, I’m going back on my word.
It’ll be the first time I ever do, but it’s worth breaking my streak for Tommaso.
I spot his red BMW parked in its usual space and park behind it. I leave the duffel bags in the car, lock it, and curse his name as I walk up the porch steps.
“Tommaso,” I say, banging on the door.
No answer.
I wiggle the doorknob to find it unlocked.
“Tommaso,” I yell again before opening the door and entering.
I ease my gun from my pocket when I spot blood on the white tiles. The only noise is a news reporter on the TV, rattling off the city’s rise in crime stats.
I peek around the corner and find Tommaso in the living room. He’s on the couch with a gunshot between his lifeless eyes, and his hands are tied behind his back. There’s no evidence of anything stolen to sell and get some of their money back.
Tommaso’s townhome is full of shit they could have pawned for a pretty penny.
“Fuck,” I hiss, walking over to him.
