Page 39 of They All Own Me

I glance back at the house one last time as we drive away, wondering how long before someone notices Mr. Leak is missing.

In an effort to get out of my head, I pull up the live news feed on my phone as Dom navigates through evening traffic. Senator Thomas Cope stands at a podium, his face a mask of practiced concern. The bastard's good at his job, I'll give him that.

"As you know, my beloved wife Tatum is missing," he says, voice catching perfectly on cue. "I'm asking anyone with information to come forward."

"What a piece of shit," Isaac mutters from the front seat.

I turn up the volume as a reporter shouts a question: "Senator Cope, when did you first notice your wife was missing?"

"I returned home from a late meeting to find the house empty." Thomas dabs at his eyes with a handkerchief. "At first, I thought nothing of it. Tatum often volunteers at local charities. But when she didn't return my calls..."

"Volunteers at charities?" Dom snorts. "More like he keeps her locked up like a fucking bird in a cage."

"He didn't even report her missing. His fucking side piece secretary did." I say.

We watch as Thomas continues his performance, promising a reward for information leading to Tatum's safe return. The camera pans across his face, catching what looks like genuine tears.

"Oscar-worthy," I mutter, closing the feed. "Think he actually believes the Asian mob took her?"

"Probably, he's a dumbass afterall," Dom says.

I check my messages, wondering if Tatum's seen the press conference yet. The image of her in that oversized shirt this morning flashes through my mind. I push it away. Getting attached isn't part of the plan. But I can't seem to fucking help myself.

I pull up the security feed on my phone, telling myself it's just to check if everything's secure. The pool camera fills my screen, and my breath catches.

Tatum glides through the water in nothing but white cotton underwear that's become practically see-through. Her long auburn hair fans out behind her as she does another lap. The afternoon sun catches the droplets on her skin, making her gleam like some kind of water goddess.

"Fuck," I mutter, adjusting in my seat.

She pulls herself out of the pool, water cascading down her curves. My fingers tighten around my phone as she wrings out her hair and stretches. The movement makes her breasts strain against the wet fabric.

She settles onto one of the loungers, completely unaware she's being watched. A thick book rests in her hands – looks like she raided our library. Something about the way she's so comfortable, so at home, makes my chest tight.

"What are you looking at?" Dom's voice makes me jump.

I lock my phone screen quickly. "Just checking the security feeds."

He raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. Thank fuck.

I try to focus on the laptop in front of me, but my mind keeps drifting back to that feed. To wet skin and white cotton and the way she bit her lip while reading.

Dom taps the steering wheel, breaking the heavy silence. "Ready for round two?"

I shake my thoughts of Tatum away, focusing on the job at hand. "Where we headed?"

"Greenwich. Got another leak that needs plugging." Dom pulls out his phone, showing us a photo. "This one's been selling info to the feds."

"Ambitious," Isaac snorts from the back seat.

I study the photo - middle-aged guy, expensive suit, typical corporate type who thinks he's smarter than everyone else. "What's his story?"

"CFO at one of our shell companies," Dom explains as he pulls onto I-95. "Started getting greedy, thought he could make some extra cash by playing both sides."

"Moron," I mutter, watching the city lights blur past. The sunset paints the sky in shades of orange and purple, turning the clouds into cotton candy. Beautiful evening for ugly business.

The rest of the drive passes in comfortable silence. We've done this dance so many times it's almost routine. Almost. But I can't shake the feeling that something's different now. Maybe it's the woman swimming laps in our pool, or maybe I'm just getting soft.

Dom pulls up to a gated driveway in one of those neighborhoods where every house looks like it belongs in Architectural Digest. "Game faces on, gentlemen."

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