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Leaning my shoulder on the doorframe, I watch her sleeping form. I was convinced she would decline to help around the kitchen. But the message I received from Keva wasn’t a text, it was a photo of my wife standing on a small stool in front of a sink, scrubbing an enormous, burned pan. She was wearing the same gold pants and blue sweater she had on at the restaurant, only instead of high heels, she had on some fuzzy monstrosity on her feet. Several more photos followed. Sienna placing glasses into a cupboard. Leaning over the stove, looking inside a steaming pot. Carrying dirty dishes while clearly laughing over something. I was seriously tempted to leave my task of killing Wesley for another day and head home just so I could watch Sienna while she appeared to be enjoying her tasks.
The Italians in Cosa Nostra are a very special lot. Those at the upper levels of the hierarchy are treated almost like royalty, and a lot of them act as if they actually are. Especially women. I went out with the sister of one of the capos a few years back and was tempted to off myself twenty minutes into our date. I don’t even remember the name of the woman, only the feeling that I was sitting across an empty shell of a person. A mannequin in a shop window whose only purpose in life was to showcase the expensive clothes she had on. Peel those away, and nothing but a plastic dummy remained.
My wife may wear equally expensive attire, but I have a feeling that there are many, many more layers under her surface. And I intend to peel every single one of them and find out what hides beneath.
Walking toward the suitcases, I pick up the first two and carry them back to my room. After repeating the act three more times, I approach the bed where Sienna is sleeping and slide my arms under her slight frame. I may not have any intention of having sex with her yet, but there is only one place she’s allowed to sleep. In my bed.
Sienna stirs, mumbles something, and buries her face in my chest. I carry her back to my bedroom, carefully lower her onto the bed, and climb in to lie behind her. She keeps sleeping even when I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her against my body.
Chapter 7
The moment I open my eyes, I know I’m in the wrong room. Instead of a small curtainless window, I’m looking at long navy drapes covering French doors that lead to a balcony. My husband’s room. He probably carried me here while I was asleep. And my suitcases are back as well, lined along the wall. A small smile pulls at my lips.
I roll over, finding the other side of the bed empty, and an unwelcome pang of disappointment stabs me in the gut. Did I secretly hope Drago would be next to me? I guess I did, a little. The bedroom door is shut, and he’s nowhere in sight. I reach for his pillow and pull it to my face. It smells like him. I might like waking up in Drago’s bed, but I’m still going to move my stuff back into the small room again, later. I’m not sleeping with a man I don’t know, no matter how hot he is.
The thump of approaching footsteps resonates in the hallway. I throw the pillow away as if it burned me, jump out of bed, and head toward the suitcases.
“You missed breakfast,” Drago’s voice rumbles through the room from the doorway. “Keva put something aside for you in the kitchen.”
“Thank you, dear,” I say as I rummage through the contents of a suitcase. “Hey, I was wondering—”
“We’re taking a quick tour of the property before I’m headed to work,” he interrupts me midsentence. “I’ll be waiting for you in front of the garage. Hurry. I don’t have all day.”
“Oh, that’s so nice of you to offer, but I’m not into taking a stroll this early in the morning. How about we leave it for the afternoon, huh?” I look over my shoulder. He’s already gone.
“That was rude!” I yell after him.
I dress in under ten minutes and dash down the wide stairwell to the ground floor. Two of Drago’s men are standing by the front door, completely engrossed in their discussion while getting their coats on.
I approach and offer them a beaming smile. “Such a lovely morning. Going to a meeting?”
They both glare down at me. The man on my right is wearing a black suit and a crooked, half-knotted tie around his neck. I think his name is Iliya. I had a chance to explore the house with Jelena yesterday, and she pointed out a few people we passed. There are so many who live here, though, it’s going to take me a while to get to know everyone.
“Oh, you can’t go out like that, sweet cheeks.” I shake my head and adjust his tie. “There. Much better. Did you two have breakfast?”
When I look up again, I find them both looking at me with wide eyes and brows creeping toward their hairlines.
“Yes,” they mumble in unison.
“Oh good. Have a nice day, then.” I wave and head across the foyer.
As I make my way to the kitchen, I think back to last night’s after-dinner episode. The kitchen looked like a bomb went off there—stacks of dirty dishes everywhere, and the girls running around, putting away the leftovers and stuffing plates into dishwashers. There are three, and I’m certain they are constantly running with the number of dishes that every meal produces. I’m surprised they don’t have one of those commercial units, like a restaurant. The scene was chaotic, but I actually found it calming somehow.
Drago wasn’t at dinner, as I hoped he would be, and I was feeling a bit down because of it. So, when Keva noticed me standing in the doorway, she asked if I’d like to help. I shrugged and readily agreed. The next second, she shoved a burned pot into my hands. It took me more than thirty minutes to scrub that thing, but it probably would have been two hours if Nata hadn’t noticed that I was using a sponge and gave me a metallic-looking thingy to use instead.
I’m not accustomed to housework—we had a maid for that—but I quite enjoyed helping Keva and the girls. The women laughed and gossiped about their boyfriends, throwing curious looks in my direction every once in a while. Then, at one point, they suddenly switched to English and pulled me into a conversation. We busied ourselves until Keva shooed us out. I ended up with a chipped nail, but it was fun.
The kitchen is less frantic now, but there are still plenty of activities happening. The morning meal is long over, so three girls are loading up the dishwashers and tidying up. I spot Filip and a couple of other guys having their breakfast at a small table off to the side. They must have missed the main event just like I did. Keva is across the room, absently stirring the contents of a big bowl she’s holding, her eyes on the TV suspended over the counter. She stills, her attention completely engrossed on the screen blasting the local news. There’s never a shortage of drama in New York.
I spy an almost empty juice jug in the middle of the table the guys are sitting at, so I head over to the huge fridge and take out a full one. I noticed Keva putting a few of these in to chill yesterday.
“Here,” I say as I set the juice on the table and smile before I take the empty jug to the dishwasher.
Adam, the big dark-haired guy who’s in charge of the foot soldiers, according to Jelena, enters the kitchen.
“Pop se zabavio sinoc, vidim.” He nods toward the TV as he takes a can of soda from the fridge.
The priest had fun last night? What is considered “fun” for Serbian priests? Maybe he runs a church choir? I look up at the TV screen. A reporter is standing in front of a five-story building, speaking to the camera. Several police cars are parked behind him, and a yellow crime scene tape restricts entry to the premises.
