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“Get anywhere near my wife again, and I shall consider it an act of war. A war I am more than equipped to finish, and in record time,” I warned. “Understood?”
He averted his gaze from me, unwilling to see the determination in my eyes. “Fine, stronzo, fine!”
“Same goes for your son. I catch him near her, and he’ll be sorry your wife was drunk enough to permit his conception.”
“Angelo can do whatever he wants,” he gobbed, waving his fist in the air. “Leave him out of this.”
“We’ll see about that. Rossi,” I said, turning from Mike.
Arthur was already standing up, refusing to go down without a fight. I’d dreamed of this moment for many years. Holding such power over his head.
And now, when I finally had it, I felt nothing but disdain and wariness.
Coming here was an uncalculated risk. These men had no moral compass, and if Francesca ended up six feet under, I’d never be able to forgive myself.
I was the one who got her into this mess in the first place.
“Put your soldiers and associates on a shorter leash,” I ordered, pointing at his face.
“You mean, like your wife does to you?” He patted his pocket and produced a cigar, sticking it between his lips. “She seems to have taken over your better judgment. You’d have never showed up here months ago, and you wanted my head even back then,” Arthur said.
“I have your head.”
“You’re playing with your food, Senator Keaton, instead of going in for the kill. You’re enamored by a teenager, and that wasn’t in your plan.”
“Give me your word,” I repeated, feeling a tick of annoyance flickering behind my eyelid.
Arthur waved his hand. “I will not hurt my own daughter and will make sure no one in this room does either. She is, after all, my flesh and blood.”
“Don’t fucking remind me.”
On the way home, I put Bishop and White on a conference call.
I knew two things: they weren’t going to turn the conference call down, aware that I had too much ammo on them, and that they didn’t want me to leak anything over the phone—for exactly the same reason.
The problem was that I was sick and tired of corrupt assholes getting their way. Especially when innocent people were being hurt in the process.
Especially when one of those people was the woman who had my ring on her finger.
“I heard that you paid quite a visit to our friend.” Bishop was golfing by the sounds of carts and sunshine laughter on the other line.
White remained silent.
“How are you doing, Preston?” I asked, getting comfortable in the back seat as Smithy zigzagged through the busy Chicago traffic.
I did not acknowledge Preston’s remark about my visit to Arthur because, as far as I was concerned, I’d never been there.
I took one of Francesca’s Zippos out of my pocket, flicking it on and off absentmindedly. Something—hell if I know why—possessed me to take it with me when I left her room this morning.
“I’m fine. Is there a particular reason why you’re asking?” Preston grated into the phone with audible annoyance.
White took a labored breath, waiting for my answer. It sucked when the only person holding the cards in the conversation was a green politician with a vindictive streak.
“Just wanted to check on how you’re gearing up for the elections next year.” I stared through the window.
It was nicer to sit in the car with Nemesis around. Not because we shared pleasant conversation—that was rarely the case—but because she always smiled at Chicago like it was beautiful and fascinating and busy especially for her.
She appreciated the small things in life.
