Page 4 of Meet Me in Montreal

“Good for her not signing a prenup, I guess,” Lina had said drily.

In fact, it had been Vanessa who’d strongly suggested they get one, but he’d been in such a hurry to make her his wife, he hadn’t wanted to wait for useless legalities. In his mind, there was never going to be a divorce, so it simply wasn’t necessary.

Did he care that at least some of those things were purchased with his monthly support money? He was fighting her toothand nail over shit like this simply to be a pain in her ass but secretly, he wanted this. Santino wanted her surrounded by him, everything she wore, the beautiful house she lived in, the big bed and the sheets she slept in. He wanted nearly every good thing in her life to serve as a constant reminder to her of the bond they’d shared, the one she’d severed so abruptly, like it was nothing.

Sometimes he wished he could break that bond after three fucking years of living without her.

Watching her and not being able to touch her was torture. Not being allowed to say a word to her outside of their settlement meetings or court hearings was brutal.

He didn’t want to want her like this.

He didn’t want toneedher like this.

Nevertheless, he’d promised her safety. Made a vow to protect her, and he didn’t go back on a vow once made.

He waited until she was in her car, his wedding present to her. Then he put his empty cup in the holder, and as she exited the driveway and drove off, he pulled out of his spot and followed from a careful distance.

Santino listened to his playlist as they drove in tandem, almost like a synchronized performance. Some song came on, a man singing about how his woman accused him of cheating and left him without any proof whatsoever. That was a fucking coincidence if there ever was one.

His only consolation was that in the three years since she’d left him, not once had he seen another man enter that house with her at night or emerge in the morning. No other man had spent the night in their bed or kissed those luscious lips before she started her day.

She’d started dating this past year, but none of thosestunadshad lasted beyond a month. There was one that seemed like he might go the distance, but Santino had followed him home onenight after a date and had a little talk with him. It only took one conversation. Bro had politely fucked off and vanished.

But now there was a problem, a tall, muscular ginger-haired motherfucking problem that wore good suits and flexed a Rolex. Fortunately, this problem had been dropping her off after their dates for the past four months without making it past the front door. Vanessa usually kissed him on the cheek and sent him on his way, but the alarms were ringing pretty loud this time. That guy was a problem that had to be resolved soon, before things went too far.

Santino didn’t know how much longer he could wait to see if things between this asshole and his wife would fizzle on their own. He might have to step in if he saw him head upstairs one of these nights. The idea of that, of anyone touching that beautiful skin, of someone else pounding those sighs and moans out of her luscious body the way he had… It made him physically sick to picture it, made panic surge in him to think that one of these days, when he couldn’t be there to stop it, that guy would make it past heaven’s gate.

Not. Fucking. Happening.

Santino slowed when Vanessa reached the parking lot of Mancini, Drexler & Associates, and pulled into a spot. She got out, and her long sable hair slid across her shoulders as she locked the doors with a press of her keyfob. The nonchalant way she flicked her hair, kissing the middle of her back with a flirty little flip at the bottom, caused a desperate, hungry tugging in his belly. He needed to touch that hair, needed to bury his face in it and inhale the wild, floral scent but like the rest of her, it was off limits.

Her wry humor, her softness in moments when she allowed herself to be vulnerable to him, her laughter… all of it off limits.

Santino waited while she stood in front of the old wooden door of the firm’s old mansion with its ornate golden handle.Vanessa stood with her hand on that handle. And stood, staring ahead as if examining the scrollwork in the wood like something there fascinated her. He’d noticed this little exercise starting a few months ago. Each morning, it seemed to go on longer. Then she gave herself a little shake, straightened her spine, and disappeared inside to begin her day.

Most likely, she’d be headed to the courthouse afterward for the big trial she was working on. He’d slipped in once or twice to listen in and watch her from the back of the room.

She was safely inside. His heartbeat slowed down to its normal, miserable pace. He had to go drop off Dom’s car and retrieve his own before heading to the station house to start his shift.

When he pulled into Dom’s driveway, his cousin was on his lawn wearing a sleeveless undershirt showing his wiry, lean muscle and a pair of jeans. He had a baseball cap over his dark brown hair as he squinted up at the sky with a mug of coffee in his hand.

Dom was a Badinelli, son of Paul Badinelli, a cousin from Patrick’s side. Out of respect for his elder status, Santino called him Uncle Paulie. He and the rest of the Badinellis got their bag the hard way. Patrick had said stay on the straight path, warning his sons not to get involved with Badinelli business. Santino listened, most of the time.

Dom, on the other hand, was all in. He knew things. He was more than Santino’s cousin and his buddy. He was his eyes and ears, a procurer of information and more robust “assistance” when necessary.

“Yo. What you looking at?” Santino asked.

“That cloud looks weird. I think it might be one of them alien drones that was flying over Jersey last year.”

Dom was a bona fide conspiracy theorist. He shook Santino’s hand, his dark eyes still scanning the sky.

“I got that info you wanted about that dude. You’re not gonna like it though,” Dom said, glancing at him, then looking away and smoothing down his mustache.

“I already knew that. Tell me anyway.” Santino folded his arms across his chest and waited.

“He’s from Woodlawn. His name is Scott Malone. He got a scholarship to Fordham, went to Columbia for his MBA. Now he’s a founding partner and the CFO of a company down in Tribeca. Looks like he’s doing good now but he’s a Saint, bro. Or he used to be.”

Dom was right. Santino didn’t like this news, at all.

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