by LJ Shen
Angelo always won.
“I’m coming for you. Take the Lawrence Avenue exit.” I heard Wolfe picking up his keys. I didn’t remember ever seeing him drive. Ever. Either he was driven, or he sat next to me as I drove around the neighborhood.
“I’m not a good driver.” I tried to keep my emotions under control, reminding him that he shouldn’t be as sure as he was of my abilities to get us out of this in one piece. My eyes looked for the exit he was talking about, my eyeballs running maniacally in their sockets.
“You’re an excellent fucking driver,” Wolfe said, and I heard him zipping through traffic, breaking approximately two thousand laws based on the honking and yelling in the background. “Besides, if something happens to you, I will blow up the entire Outfit and put every Made Men in Chicago behind bars the rest of their lives, and they know it.”
“I think it’s because I married you,” I muttered, blinking away the tears so I could spot Lawrence Avenue better. Smithy shook his head in my periphery. It wasn’t the time or the place to discuss this.
“It’s not your fault,” Wolfe said. “I threw his son in jail for the night, and his firm is under IRS investigation. He wants to get back at me through you.”
“Is it working?” My voice shook. I heard the engine of Wolfe’s Jaguar straining against the speed. He didn’t answer me. Another bump to our car. I held back a sob.
“They’re running us off the road,” Smithy yelled, slapping the dashboard. “Can I draw a weapon?”
“Don’t you dare,” Wolfe barked. “If a hair on Francesca’s head accidentally moves…”
Just as he said that, the loudest crash of all rang in my ears at the same time that the air bag shot out, knocking our heads backward against the headrest. White powder floated in the air like confetti. The Cadillac screeched and rolled to the side of the road, and I felt something hissing underneath us. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t open my mouth. I couldn’t even groan. My nose felt like it’d been pushed to the back of my head. I wondered if I broke it. I pondered if now, that my face was all jacked, my husband would finally lose interest in me.
That was the last thought I had before I passed out.
“Francesca? Nem? Talk to me,” Wolfe demanded in the background. A dark screen spilled over my eyes as my eyelids gave in. I wanted to answer him but couldn’t. I heard him slap his wheel. “Damn it all to fucking hell. I’m on my way.”
I dragged my eyes to Smithy with whatever energy I had left. His head began to bob as the airbag shrank back, and he groaned in pain.
“She’s fine,” Smithy croaked. “Bleeding from her mouth and nose. Her eye doesn’t look too good, either.”
“Fuck!” Wolfe yelled.
Smithy unbuckled himself and reached across, unbuckling me, too.
“Should I…?” Smithy started at the same time Wolfe barked, “Yes. Draw your weapon. And if they get close to her, by God, kill the bastards before I do. Because I would be much less humane.”
I passed out after that. It felt like a thick blanket of nightmares covered me, suffocating and scorching hot. I was there but not really. I didn’t know how much time had passed. The first thing I remembered were the blue and red police lights shimmering behind my closed eyelids, and Smithy explaining to the police officers that we didn’t see them, and that they took off without getting out of their vehicle. Their license plate was missing, of course, but they were probably just punk kids who wanted to vandalize an expensive new car. Then I felt Wolfe’s arms wrapping around me and carrying me, bridal-style, to an ambulance. He tucked me in a gurney and barked when someone else tried to touch me.
“Sir,” a male paramedic snapped, “we need to put a brace on her neck and strap her to a backboard to stabilize her in case of spinal injuries.”
“Fine. Be gentle,” he snapped. When I opened my eyes, I noticed that Wolfe wasn’t alone. A chubby man in a fancy suit with a black mane stood next to him.
A paramedic shined a penlight into my eyes, patting my body and looking for any visible injuries. My forehead was bruised, and my entire face felt swollen and sore.
“If she lands in the ER, we’ll need to issue a statement,” the guy next to Wolfe was texting on his phone, still staring at it. “It’s going to look bad.”
“I don’t care what it looks like,” my husband retorted.
“When an airbag goes off, you have to go to the hospital. If you don’t, you have to sign an Against Medical Advice form. I would strongly suggest we just take her and get her checked.” I heard a soft female paramedic’s voice and blinked my eyes open. She was an attractive woman in her late twenties, and I wondered, briefly, if my Lothario husband was going to put his schmuck in her, too. Suddenly, I despised her, to a point I wanted to tell her I was feeling fine, just as long as she left us alone.
“Darling?” Wolfe probed, his fingers skimming my face gently. Too gently for me to even believe they were actually his. “We’re going to take you to the hospital.”
“No hospital,” I groaned into the palm of his hand. “Just…home. Please.”
“Francesca…”
“It’s fine. The airbags went off but didn’t touch us,” Smithy interfered.
“She’s going to the hospital,” Wolfe argued.
“Sir…” the man beside Wolfe tried to argue.
I wondered if he was like that because there were people around us. Because he ought to be nice and gentle to me in public. The thought scared me to death because something deep inside me wanted to cling to this new side of my husband and never let him go.
“Please. I just want my bed.” My voice broke midsentence as I tried hard not to cry. I had a split lip I was pretty sure was going to reopen if I did. The gorgeous paramedic tapped his shoulder, and I almost mustered the strength to bite her head off, but then he shook out of her touch casually.
“It’s just shallow bruises,” I croaked.
“Get a private doctor to my place in an hour,” Wolfe snapped his fingers in the suited man’s direction, then turned back to me.
“Home,” I told him.
“Yes. Home.” Wolfe brushed hair from my face.
“Thank God,” the suit next to him muttered under his breath, already making the call.
“Shut up, Zion.”
“Yes, sir.”
I woke up in my bed some hours later after a doctor’s visit that stretched for almost two hours. Wolfe was sitting on the couch in front of my bed, working on his laptop. The minute I cracked an eye open, he placed the laptop on the couch, stood up, and made his way to me. I curled under my sheets, too sore to be touched, but he just sat next to me and kept his hands in his lap.
“How is Smithy?” I asked. He blinked at me as though the question itself was ridiculous. Was I speaking in English? Pretty sure I was. Then a smile hung on his beautiful face, like the moon, and I knew—with a good portion of melancholy—that I was in love with this cruel beast of a husband. That for another one of those glowing, genuine smiles, I would butt horns with my father, slay dragons, and hand him my pride on a silver platter. It was depressing to admit, even to myself, that I was under his thumb.
“That’s the first thing you ask after being chased off the roads by mobsters? How the help is doing?” He brushed his thumb across my cheek.
“He is not the help. He is a driver and our friend.”
“Oh, Nemesis.” He shook his head, his smile widening as he pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead. The gesture was so touching I was on the verge of bursting into a sob. Without asking if I’d like water, he brought the glass on my nightstand to my cracked lips, helping me take a few sips.
“Sterling is worried like crazy. She went to the diner down the road and got you enough waffles to build a Hansel and Gretel candy house.”
“I’m not hungry.” I shifted in bed. Somehow, everything hurt even more after a few hours. It wasn’t actually bruises, but the impact of the adrenaline on my body as it wore off.
“Shocking.” My hu
sband rolled his eyes. Senator Wolfe Keaton rolling his eyes exasperatedly was a sight I never thought I’d see.
“But I would love a cigarette.” I licked my lips, tasting the salty flavor of my dry blood. He walked over to my desk and took out a thin Vogue cigarette from its pack, sitting by my side and sliding it between my lips. He lit it for me with my Zippo, like in an old black-and-white film. I smiled around my cigarette.
“Are you going to make it a habit?” he asked.
“Make what a habit?”
“Scaring me to death.”
“Depends on how much you piss me off. You forgot to tell me you almost got assassinated. By my father, no less.”
“He sent a shit aim,” he responded, some of the metal returning to his voice. “He was only half serious about killing me. I do, after all, hold his daughter hostage.”
To that, I said nothing.
He got up from my bed, his lithe body no longer tensed. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
He was going to leave, I realized. My eyes glanced at my wristwatch. It was three in the morning. He needed to be up early for his flight to Springfield. But I couldn’t bear the idea of him leaving me today after he showed me affection. I didn’t want to lose it. Didn’t want us to go back to what we were a few hours ago, before my life was on the line. Two strangers who enjoyed dry-humping each other and shared a dinner table every once in a while.
I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he wanted to go back to the previous state. And that if he left—we would.
“No,” I croaked when he was at the door. He turned around slowly, scanning me. It was all in his expression. The dread of knowing what I was about to ask. To him, I was an asset. Now that he knew that I was okay, he could go about his day. Or rather, night.
“I don’t want to stay alone tonight. Could you…only for tonight?” I blinked, hating the desperation in my voice. He peeked at the door again, almost longingly.
“I have an early morning.”
“My captor has given me quite the comfy bed,” I patted it, blushing under my bruises. He shifted from foot to foot.
“I need to let Sterling know that you’re okay.”
“Of course.” I tried to make my voice sound chirp, blinking back the tears. “Yes. She’s probably super worried. Forget what I said. Besides, I’m tired. I think I’ll fall asleep before you close the door.”
He nodded, leaving the door ajar.
I was too tired to mourn my unfulfilled request. I fell asleep a minute after he left my room with the half-smoked cigarette swimming inside my water glass, a habit that made Wolfe cuss under his breath as he collected the glasses after me.
When I woke up the next day, the clock hit seven. I tried to stir myself awake, but felt massive weight pressing against my body. God. How badly was I hurt? I could barely move an inch. When I tried to wiggle my right arm, reaching to the alarm clock to slam the button and stop its chirp, I realized that it wasn’t soreness that stopped me from moving.
My husband was sleeping behind me, his stomach pressed against my back. Still in his suit, his breaths were deep and silent. I could feel his penis digging into my butt through our clothes. He had morning wood. I felt myself blushing, biting down a smile.
He returned to my room. He spent the night in my bed. I asked for something—something he had told me explicitly would never happen—and he gave it to me.
I put my hand over his arm, which circled my midriff, his nose and mouth pushed alongside my shoulder blade. I prayed for one thing that morning—that this wasn’t a sweet lie, but a forbidden truth.
Lies, I couldn’t deal with.
But finding a truth and digging that vein until it gushed out? I was up for that challenge.
LONG BEFORE I REALIZED THAT Francesca Rossi was in existence, I’d studied her father’s workday closely. Seeking revenge was a full-time job, and the more you knew, the more thoroughly you could ruin. I looked for weakness in his business, and loopholes in his contracts, when actually, his daughter was his most-valued possession. Both more fatal and more personal than any strip club I could shut down. The problem occurred when I realized that Arthur no longer treasured his daughter. As far as he could tell, she was no longer his ally. And to make matters worse, she married a man who was determined to kill his business, not inherit it.
The game had changed.
Arthur allowed Mike Bandini to target his daughter.
Because his daughter was also my wife.
And my wife, I foolishly proved to him, was important to me.
My Jaguar stopped in front of Mama’s Pizza restaurant in Little Italy. It was a quaint place that smelled of freshly baked sourdough and tomato soup and my goddamn sorrow. The business lost mountains of money every month but made for a great money-laundering venue. It was where The Outfit had their daily meetings. Whatever dark feelings I harbored toward Mama’s Pizza weren’t enough to keep me from making my point to those idiots.
Smithy got out of the vehicle and opened the back door for me. I waltzed into the restaurant, ignoring the plump, disoriented lady behind the counter, and went through the door behind her. Stepping into the dim room, I found ten men sitting around a round table. It was the old checked white and red Italian BS, complete with a yellow, half-burned, unlit candle. Behind it sat my father-in-law.
Round tables broke hierarchy.
Last time I’d been to Mama’s Pizza—the table was square, and Arthur Rossi was at the head of it.
And behind him hung a glassed window covering shotguns. Picture-effin-esque.
I sauntered toward him, the annoying woman behind me yelling and apologizing in one breath, and flipped the table with all its contents—beer, wine, water, orange juice, and breadsticks—over the laps of the men in front of it. They sat there, mouths slacked, watching me through a curtain of shock and anger. I was standing in front of Rossi, his dress pants soiled with the wine he’d been drinking. Next to him sat Mike Bandini, Angelo’s father, who slowly began to rise from his chair, no doubt about to either run or point a gun at me. I grasped his shoulder, digging my fingers in until I met his bones through his skin, then pushed him back into his chair, and kicked it across the room. The chair’s wooden legs skated a foot back from the force. I glimpsed at Arthur, pleased to see that his palm was still wrapped up from the night he stained the white sheets with his own blood.
“How’s your face today, Bandini?” I smiled good-naturedly at Angelo’s father. He sucked his teeth in, smirking at me.
“In one piece.” His eyes looked left and right, trying to assess everyone else’s reaction to my surprise visit. They were pale as ghosts and crapping their pants. I wasn’t the police. Them—they could deal with. I was the man who had the power to get White fired, and worse—plant Bishop and Rossi in such deep shit they’d never climb out of it. But getting rid of me didn’t work, either. And now, it was out of the question. I had my driver and two security men parked up front.
“That’s good to hear because my wife’s face isn’t. In fact, her nose is still bleeding.” I threw a fist to his nose without warning, making all the men around us stand in unison, only to have Arthur motion for them to sit down with his hand, his lips thinning into a fine line. Mike’s head reared back, his chair flying backward and falling to the ground, him inside it. I took two steps and swallowed the distance between us.
“Her ribs are sore, too,” I added, kicking Mike in the ribs. Everyone around us sucked their teeth in, furious with the vulnerability of their situation. I took a handkerchief out of my breast pocket and wiped my hands, sighing theatrically. “Last but not least, her lips are sore. I’m going to let you choose—fist or foot?” I glanced down at him, cocking my head. Waking up in my wife’s bed was an unpleasant surprise. But feeling her ass digging into my erection with little finesse as she tried to please me was definitely something I could get used to after what seemed like a lifetime without actual sex. I knew she was too sore, but still couldn’t resist the urge to dry-fuck
her under the sheets. So I did just that; I unbuckled my dress pants and pressed my shaft against her ass cheeks. After I came on her nightgown, I left her room, ordering Ms. Sterling to make sure that she drank, ate, and didn’t do any heavy lifting. Right before I picked up the phone and had Zion hire a bodyguard for her.
“Fist.” Mike grinned, his teeth covered in blood. A mobster, after all.
“Foot it is, then. I don’t take any orders from you.” I smashed my Oxford-clad foot right into his face and heard a crack as his nose smashed to pieces. Stepping back, I strolled around the room. I, too, had better things to do with my day than spend it with men who ruined my hard work for a living.
“I’m feeling charitable today. Maybe it’s the bliss of being a newlywed. I’ve always been a hopeless romantic.” I scanned Arthur’s twisted face and the soldiers around him, who sat with the kind of electric defiance that rolled off their red-blooded bodies. Fists balled, chins high, feet tapping over the floor. They were dying to beat the hell out of me but knew I was depressingly untouchable.
I wasn’t always like this, though. And Arthur Rossi was the sole reason for my weaknesses.
“So I’m going to spare the bastards’ lives who did this to Francesca. But I thought a gentle reminder—and trust me, this is my idea of gentle—was more than necessary. I have the power and the means to shut you down completely and kill every part of your business. I could make sure all your recycling and sanitation projects are terminated. I have the power to purchase all the competing restaurants and bars to yours, throw money at them, and watch as they put yours out of business. I could make sure your families don’t have a breadcrumb to eat for dinner, and that your medical bills are unpaid. I could send the FBI to your underground gambling joints and whorehouses. I could reopen cases that have been dormant for years and hire enough investigators to populate your streets”—I took a deep breath—“and I could bleed you dry of every dime you own. But I’m not doing that. Not yet, at least, so don’t give me a reason.”