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Wolfe surprised me again.
“Whatever I have on him could take away everything he’s worked for, not to mention throw him in jail for the rest of his miserable life. But your father didn’t throw you to the dogs. He trusts me not to hurt you.”
“Is that foolish of him?” I looked up.
Wolfe’s muscular arm flexed under his shirt. A barely visible movement.
“I’m not a monster.”
“Could’ve fooled me. Just tell me why?” I whispered, the air rattling in my lungs. “Why do you hate him so much?”
“That’s two questions. Go to bed.”
“Move out of the way.”
“Accomplishments are so much more rewarding when obstacles are in the way. Fight me, darling.”
I snuck under his arm, ducking into the house and launching for the staircase. He caught me by the waist in one swift movement, pulling me into his arms and plastering me against his strong chest.
His knuckles trailed down the length of my spine, and goose bumps burst all over my skin. His lips found my ear, hot and soft in contrast to the harsh man they belonged to, his breath tickling my hair.
“Maybe I am the monster. After all, I come out to play at night. But so do you, little one. You’re out in the darkness, too.”
Chapter
Eight
WOLFE
Blowing up Arthur’s property slash meth lab—and the coke with it—was just another Tuesday. The work of saints was done through others, and mine had definitely been taken care of.
The next four days were spent bending White’s and Bishop’s arms until they snapped and agreed to assign over five hundred additional cops to be on duty at any given time to protect the streets of Chicago from the mess I’d created.
It was going to blow up the bill to the sky, but it wasn’t the state of Illinois that was going to shell out the money. The money was sitting firmly in White’s and Bishop’s pockets.
Money given by my future father-in-law.
Who, by the way, changed his tune from trying to coax his daughter into warming up to me and decided to repay me by throwing hundreds of pounds of trash in parks across Chicago.
He couldn’t do much more than that, considering all the juice I had on him. I was a power player. Touching what was mine—even scratching my car—came with a hefty price tag and would award him more unneeded attention from the FBI.
I had the trash picked up by volunteers and thrown into his garden. That was when the phone calls began to pour in. Dozens of them. Like a needy, drunk ex-girlfriend on Valentine’s Day.
I didn’t pick up.
I was a senator.
He was a highly connected mobster.
I could marry his daughter, but I wouldn’t listen to what he had to say. My job was to clean the streets he soiled with drugs, guns, and blood.
I made a point to be at home as little as possible, which wasn’t very hard between flying out to Springfield and DC frequently.
Francesca was still adamant about having her dinners in her room (not that I cared).
She did, however, fulfill her commitments as far as cake-tasting, trying on dresses, and doing all the other bullshit wedding planning I’d dumped on her (not that I minded if she showed up in a goddamn oversized napkin).
I didn’t care for my fiancée’s affection.
