Page 33 of Brutal Power

I worry. I really freaking worry. And if I’m alone with no outlet, I’m going to drive myself crazy.

I could tell Brody all that. He might even understand. Or he might roll his eyes at me and tell me that I’m being a little bittoo muchor whatever he likes to say, and that’ll only piss me off and make everything worse.

“A half hour, but absolutely no more,” I say finally.

He leans back in his chair. “I’m a tax lawyer.”

I let that sink in. I pictured him defending hardened criminals, making intricate arguments about ballistics and witness statements and whatever.

Not doing freaking taxes.

“I’m going to be honest here and say that I didn’t see that one coming.”

He’s clearly trying not to smile. “Dad was a criminal defense lawyer, and when I went to law school, we decided that it was more prudent for me to specialize in something else. I figured tax law would be worthwhile for an organization like ours, and I was mostly right.”

I put my face in my hands. “Oh my god. My husband is boring.”

“Not boring. I’m still a litigator. I just litigate tax stuff.”

“That’s not better,” I say, groaning, being a little dramatic because it’s funny. “What about your brothers? What are they?”

“Seamus is a defense lawyer. Nolan does employment. Molly does intellectual property for the most part. Declan does personal injury. Caitlin hasn’t decided, but I’m tempting her over to the dark side.”

“The dark side… of taxes.”

“Exactly.” He puts his hands behind his head. This man. This freaking man. He has to be the sexiest tax lawyer in the entire country.Taxes. My god. “Have I earned my half hour yet?”

“You have,” I say grudgingly. “I guess I can get unpacked.”

“Wonderful. Make yourself as home.” He leans forward, already pulling out a new file and tapping at his laptop.

I don’t move. I already know what’ll happen out there. The second I don’t have Brody to distract me, all the intrusive thoughts and worries will start piling up. But I promised him,and he does need to work, so I force myself to leave him alone for a while.

“This is fine,” I whisper to myself as I start to arrange the guest room to my liking. “Everyone will be fine. Davide won’t get shot again. Nobody’s going to die. It’ll be fine.” I hum to myself the way my mom used to when she was doing chores when we were growing up, but that doesn’t help.

Eventually, I call Stefania and chatter at her, and because she knows all about my anxieties, she sticks on the phone for way longer than she should. I feel guilty, taking up her time, since she’s always so busy and she has a husband to worry about too, but she’s a good friend and I love her, and besides, I’d do this for her a thousand times over.

I cobble together distractions like that for the remainder of the day. Brody wants to kill me but I have a feeling he doesn’t want to ruin our first day of matrimonial bliss and so he tolerates my constant interruptions. I cook a big, elaborate dinner, and make an absolute mess, but at least my husband seems happy with the situation when I sit him down and pour him a drink.

“Enjoy,” I say, gesturing at the variety of dishes, mostly Italian, but I did some baked potatoes so he’d feel at home. On account of the Irish and all. Which I happily tell him, and he does not think that’s funny.

I talk all through the meal. He makes appreciative noises and has seconds of everything. I barely eat, and if he notices, he doesn’t comment.

Afterwards, we watch a movie together. We sit on the couch and my feet brush against his thighs. I keep jostling, and he has toput a hand on my ankle to keep my still. He glances at me, and I wonder what he’s thinking. But he still doesn’t comment.

I’m tempted to beg him not to go to bed, but I feel like an idiot and pretend like everything’s fine. I linger in the hall for too long and ask him what kind of shampoo he uses, like that’s a normal question. He gives me a long look. And still says nothing.

I can’t sleep.

Every time I close my eyes, I can see my brothers driving in big black trucks and getting shot at, their bodies torn to pieces. I can hear sirens. I can smell the interior of a prison as they’re paraded to their cells. It’s all sweat and antiseptic.

I last an hour in bed before I’m back downstairs. I pour a glass of wine and pace around the living room, resisting the urge to check in with Stefania, but she’s going through her own shit right now. Probably just as worried as I am.

“When are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” Brody’s voice makes me jump. I turn on him, one hand at my throat, the other gripping the wine glass.

“You scared me.”

He comes over wearing a pair of tight black joggers and a simple black t-shirt that hugs his muscular chest. “You’ve been on edge all day. I keep waiting for you to say something, but you don’t. What’s going on?”

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