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Death. He would kill me… end me for sure. I just know it.
“Chicago, maybe. Last we heard, there were some insiders who turned against their boss. Maybe they wanted to prove dominance, and seeing as they were the last once before New York who we made peace with, maybe they picked us.”
I inwardly sigh in relief. Nico isn’t onto us yet. That’s all I need to breathe a little easier.
So why does this make me feel guilty? I’m the middle man in this battle, and I’m doing all the dirty work—well, supposed to be.
That’s why. Aren’t I just as evil for being a spy against my new husband? To know, with just the right insight, I will end this man and his entire outfit?
I can feel the blood on my hands suddenly. It’s ironic and cynical at the same time. I’m patching his wounds, my hands literally covered in his blood in this moment, when soon, his death, his undoing, will be because of me. His blood will then stain my hands for the rest of my life.
And just as suddenly, I realize… I can’t do this. No matter how much I hate Nico, I can’t be like my father. Ineverwant to be.
But how will I escape that? Should I stay with Nico and let my father kill me, or betray Nico and have him killed? Either way, death happens, and I have to make a choice on who is more important.
Nico or me?
CHAPTER FIVE
NICO
It has to be Chicago.They were the last ones we made peace with, and knowing they had insiders turn bad, it just makes sense. I demanded Giulio to investigate it.
They got away before we could catch them, so the only thing we can do is lie low and be stealthy with our movements. For now, I’m sitting in my bedroom being stitched up by Dr. Fontelo and going over every detail I can remember from the shootout. But the only thing I can seem to recall is Emelia. Seeing her in the crossfire of whatever war some unknown force is waging on me.
I look to where Emelia sits in her ripped and bloody silk dress, the material not hiding any part of her curves, softness, or weight that I salivate over. She is the bane of my existence, yet all I could think about was her safety. Even after she pissed me off when I gave her the pearls.
My mother’s pearls.
Emelia doesn't know that was a meaningful gesture in response to her saying she was waving the white flag. I was stupid to think she really would, and the realization she lied was solidified when she didn't say thank you for giving her such a gift.
My mother was a fucking saint, and I handed her most precious jewelry over to someone who couldn’t care less. What was I thinking? I’m a fucking idiot for letting her have something that was once so special to my mom, and one of the only items of hers that I kept. I’m a fucking fool, and I slapped that label on all by myself. When Emelia brushed off my gift, I wanted to yank the pearls from her neck, but that would have broken the prized possession, and I couldn't do that to my mother.
Looking at Emelia shouldn’t be something I want to do right now, but I can’t fucking help it. I’m drawn to her lustfully. I crave her and want to have her, all while I hate that she’s even in the same room as me. My mind tells me to throw her to the wolves, but my body is telling me to feed her to the beast inside me.
She's a temptress, and I think she knows that. I see the way she admires me the same way I admire her assets, yet we do nothing about it. Because then she and I might start to believe this means something more than lust.
But I need it. That craving. That addiction I keep at bay. The hunger that never seems to be completely fed, and if I didn’t just say my vows, I would be fucking the endless options at my club. One every night, or multiples every day. I have an… insatiable need that has to at least attempt to be met, or the world I run can become far harder for everyone under my reign. I don’t do well with so much pent-up need.
“You are good to go.Take the antibiotic so it doesn’t get infected, okay?” the good doctor tells me, and I agree with a nod. Taking the pills, I open the bottle, dump two in my hand, and throw them back with a dry swallow. I eye Emelia while he packs up and she just stares back, her eyes wide with wonderment, and that is my snapping point.
There isn't room in my head to play out the logistics of what this means or how we will navigate. I can’t fight the urge to have Emelia anymore. I just can’t. That thirst in her eyes and the way she licks her lips while watching me is all I need to seal the deal.
“Doc. I need you out. Now.” Fuck it. We are married, and I need to have her. To subdue her in some way. I can’t seem to do it outside the bedroom, so maybe I caninsideit. I need to fuck Emelia, or I just might cut off my own damn cock and hand it to her on a platter. That’s what her sassy attitude and fucking challenging ways are doing to me.
And the body.
Fuck me, the body on her. She’s not like the women I’ve had before. No, Emelia is gifted with a roundness I crave to fucking destroy. I want to grab the extra skin, lick the marks, and bite that damn cellulite. Because they are exactly what my palette wants.
Hating her doesn’t hurt either.
Yes, I want to hate-fuck my wife. Want to show her what it’s like to get in bed with a dangerous man who has needs that seem to be insatiable and rarely close to being met.
“Yes. I will be on my way.”
As he leaves, I notice the way her breathing increases, and I can see her swallow past the thickness in her throat. I can smell her arousal, practically fucking taste it.She wants all this too.
Did I luck out and marry a woman who might actually meet my desires?
