Page 36 of All's Fair In Love & War

She hadn’t just been playing with fire. She was playing with me, and I wasn’t the type to lose a fight. That was why I had her thrown out on her ass after security dragged that nobody out of my club.

With my eyes glued to the road, I intentionally avoided eye contact with Bats because there was a bit of truth in what he’d asked. I had been fucking heated, but he didn’t need to know that.”

Bats cackled. “Right, right. That’s it, huh? You know I know you better than that, right?”

“Nah, you don’t know shit.”

“I know you were still checking for her even after you kicked her ass out?”

“I ain’t checking for shit but some money,” I denied, gripping the wheel tighter as we navigated through the city streets.

The Dallas skyline loomed ahead, glass towers glittering in the morning sun and casting fractured light across the pavement. Traffic crawled through downtown, a mess of honking horns and heat waves rising from the asphalt as I observed my surroundings. Alejandro Bulgari, my father, drilled one lesson into my head as a kid:Never let your guard down.That teaching stayed with me and was etched in my bones.

I liked the action, but I hated the politics.

“I hear you. At least admit Dallas’ sister is fine as fuck. Shit, even I stared at that picture you gave us to find her a few times, and you know I love my wife.”

“I know you bet not let her see you admiring another woman, or she will shoot your ass,” I replied with a snicker.

Bats waved me off. “This conversation ain’t about me. It’s about you liking the Veneto. Don’t try to change the subject. Admit you think she’s fine, or I’ll hook her up with one of my people. They’ll wife her coke-snorting ass.”

“Watch your mouth, my nigga,” I replied, my possessiveness taking over.

Bats slapped his hand against the dashboard and laughed. “I knew it! Told you I know your ass. That’s why you’ve been so stressed out.”

“Nah, I got a score to settle, and unfortunately for her, she’s a part of my plan.”

“Yeah, you got a score, all right. While she’s hitting lines, you can be hitting that ass. You can tell me. I’ll listen, and I won’t judge.”

“Nigga, fuck you. Sit back and shut up.” I said, switching to the next lane and cutting up the radio so I didn’t have to hear his mouth.

He might have been right, but he would never know it. Felicity Veneto would never be anything more to me than a wife on paper.At least, that was what I told myself.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, slicing through the silence. I pulled it out, teeth grinding the moment I recognized the number.

“Good morning,” I answered, knowing better than to come at Mrs. Deleon with anything less than manners.

You didn’t survive childhood, or five minutes in Mrs. Deleon’s presence, without learning some damn respect. She didn’t give a damn how much money my parents had. Her motto was always the same:“Spare the rod, spoil the child.”And she meant that shit. We learned fast. That was why my mamá, Daphne, loved her so much.

Mrs. Deleon wasn’t just the estate manager. She was sixty-two, born and raised in Baton Rouge, built like she could still throw hands and win, and she ran my household tighter than a federal indictment. She helped raise my siblings and me since we were toddlers, but I was her favorite, and she was my old girl. Always had been. That was why I offered her a salary that Naeem himself wouldn’t have wanted to pay to steal her from his estate.

Mrs. Deleon never wore a uniform, no matter how many times I jokingly threatened to dock her pay because of the staff’s complaints about it. She would brush me off, mumbling something about “grown folks dressing how they please. She claimed she wasn’t “nobody’s hired help” and reminded me every week, “I raised you, boy, not them.” Mrs. Dorleon knew what she was worth, and she wouldn’t take less than she deserved from anyone.

“Khalil,” she began, her tone syrupy but firm, thick with that Southern drawl she refused to let go of, even after forty years of working with the wealthy and elite. “I hate to bother you while you out rippin’ and runnin’, doin’ God knows what, but we got us a lil’ emergency.”

That meant one thing: Felicity was causing problems—again.

I leaned my head back against the seat and sighed, “What is it?”

“That crazy girl. She don’ locked herself in the west wing again. Ain’t eaten in two days, claimin’ she not if, and I quote—‘Khalil don’t come see about me tonight, he gon’ regret it.’”

I clenched my jaw. “Let her starve. I don’t care if she eats.”

“Mmhmm,” Mrs. Deleon hummed, not buying it. “That’s what I told the peach cobbler sittin’ in the oven, but it won’t throw no lamp at me or threaten to break the damn windows.”

I ran a hand down my face. “She hurt anybody?”

“No, sir,” she replied, gentler now. “But Khalil… this tantrum feel real different. I don’t like it. She quiet, and you know how I feel about quiet women. They ain’t right. It means they plottin’.”

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