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Today was their one-month anniversary in the new house, and while Scotty was in therapy and Zander was at the casino handling shit, Vince had the bright idea to cook for them. Yes, he wasn’t all that good at it, but he was trying and his men loved and encouraged him. He wanted to do something thoughtful to celebrate.
He inspected the cut of steak he’d gotten from the butcher and nodded his approval, watching as the man wrapped it up and slapped a sticker on it. Zander was of the mind that Vince should let one of the bodyguards handle things like grocery shopping and the other mundane but necessary shit that came with life. Vince wasn’t having it, though. Why would he have someone else buy his groceries when he could do it himself? Wasn’t as if he had anything else to do all day.
Life was different, that was for sure. He’d always been in survival mode, something he was learning from therapy. Always on the grind. It was good that he had a bit of ease, of comfort. It wasn’t always easy but he was learning to enjoy it, to be grateful and to accept it for what it was. He loved the life he and his men were building and that was all that mattered. He wasn’t even thinking about what he would do, career-wise, when his six-month reprieve was over.
For now, he would cook his men dinner and they would make love and he would bask in their love while ensuring they knew they had his. That they had him.
With the steak in his cart, he traveled slowly through the store, picking up everything he would need for the recipe he’d found online. It was easy and didn’t have a lot of steps, so he had confidence that he wouldn’t fuck it up. He’d have to make another stop to pick up the wine and then visit the bakery nearby for that coconut chiffon cake they’d all become addicted to. Especially Zander. Who knew that guy would have a massive sweet tooth? Cakes and cookies didn’t last long in their home, and the young woman who owned the bakery already knew all three of them by name in the short time they’d lived in the neighborhood.
Maybe he should also buy a slice of mango cheesecake, just to tide himself over until?—
“Fancy seeing you here.”
He stopped in his tracks in the middle of the aisle, head snapping up at the familiar voice. Syren stood just steps away, facing the shelves, intently studying the can of coconut milk in his hand.
What the fuck? He glanced over his shoulder to see if his guards were still around. They were hovering at the end of the aisle, talking to each other.
“Don’t worry.” Syren still wasn’t looking at him. “I didn’t come to make a scene.”
“Why did you come?” He didn’t like being in Syren’s presence. Maybe that was his lingering shame and embarrassment talking, but it was only part of it. Syren Rua should not be allowed out in public. Nothing good ever came out of it. “Did you—Are you following me?” Hadn’t they said all they needed to say to each other that day in Brooklyn?
Syren snorted, placing the can back on the shelf before facing Vince. He was dressed down… Well, as dressed down as someone like him would be wearing a white shirt under a navy sports coat and matching trousers with black shoes. As always, his clothes looked as if they’d been tailored just for his lean build. His gaze pierced Vince, a lock of white-blond hair falling over his forehead.
“I was in the neighborhood?—”
“The fuck you were.”
“—and I spotted you and thought I should say hello.” Acting as if Vince hadn’t spoken, Syren shrugged. “I mean, we’re no longer mortal enemies, right? I know I no longer feel the uncontrollable urge to drive a knife through your neck and stand by watching as you drown in your own blood.” He smiled smugly, gaze flicking past Vince just as one of the bodyguards spoke.
“Sir, is everything all right over here?”
That was Tiny. Vince didn’t break his stare with Syren to check the speaker’s identity. He’d already memorized their voices and that was Tiny, who of course looked nothing like his nickname. In fact, he was a former MMA fighter in the heavyweight division, according to Zander. Tattooed from fingertips to toes, with flowing blond hair and a full matching beard, a barrel for a belly, and standing close to seven feet tall. And somehow, Vince didn’t think Tiny could take Syren.
“Everything’s good, Tiny,” he said, reassuring him. “Just chatting with a friend.” He waited until Tiny’s footsteps retreated before he addressed Syren. “You’ve thought about it, huh? Killing me?”
Syren hummed his confirmation. “They’ve brought me such pleasure, those thoughts.” He drew closer and Vince held his position, ensuring his expression remained blank, refusing to show the other man any kind of weakness. “But all that’s behind us now, isn’t it?” There went that slick smile again. “How is Scotty, by the way? He hasn’t called.”
“Don’t say his fucking name,” Vince blurted out.
The smile got bigger, wider, Syren’s eyes lighting up as he studied Vince. Vince didn’t know what the bastard was looking for but he had no doubt Syren found it when he said, “Doesn’t feel good, does it? Another man interested in what’s yours. In what you’ve stamped your mark all over. Lights a fire in your chest, doesn’t it? Turns the best men into monsters. And the monsters?” He brushed quick fingers over Vince’s sleeve with a sniff. “Well…you just hope there’s someone around capable of reining them in.” He winked, taking a step back, dropping his gaze to the cart at Vince’s side. “Enjoy your dinner. It’s on me.” Striding away, he said over his shoulder, “Tell Scotty I’m still waiting on that call.”
That fucking?—
It took Vince longer than he would have liked to gather himself enough to finish his shopping. He didn’t like how easily Syren could get to him and he really didn’t like his fixation on Scotty. Syren was right; Vince’s chest burned at the thought of the criminal mastermind being so interested in Scotty. It didn’t bode well.
As he got to the register and began unloading his cart, he resigned himself to the fact that he would have to talk to Zander about how to handle this in order to best protect Scotty. He already knew Scotty wouldn’t want to hear it.
He sighed as he pulled out his wallet to get to his credit card.
The teenager behind the register shook his head, his prominent Adam’s apple bulging when he said, “Your stuff’s already been paid for, sir.”
“What? How is that—” Fucking Syren.
He didn’t expect Zander to already be there when he returned to the house. Shaken out of deep thought as they drove through the front gates, he swallowed a curse when the driver pulled into the garage next to Zander’s black and chrome Range Rover.
Vince waited, taking several breaths before he got out when Tiny pulled his door open. The big guy eyed the bags Vince grabbed but didn’t say anything. He knew better. He’d suggested only once—as they’d exited the supermarket—that he carried the bags for Vince, who’d in turn given him the most lethal stare down he could muster before Tiny backed down, throwing his hands in the air in surrender. Vince couldn’t get out of the bodyguards following him around, but he drew the fucking line at them treating him like a goddamn damsel in distress.
Bags in hand, he made his way into the house through the garage that was large enough to hold at least six cars, though for now it only held three. He didn’t see Zander, so he went about putting the groceries away as he brainstormed how he would bring up the whole Syren situation. How would they be able to get Syren to back down? He hated Vince and now appeared to have some kind of weird fascination with Scotty.
