Page 124 of Cruelest Contract
She shrugs and tries to smile but she can’t meet my eyes. “I’m not upset anymore. “
“Why didn’t you call me?”
Her fingers toy with her braid and she frowns at her knee. “Because I’m fine and because your father said your business in London was important.”
With a hiss, I leave the bed and double back to shut the door. The house is too full of people and I want to talk to my wife in private.
The ‘business in London’ was an annual global summit of Mafia bosses. I’d sum it up as a migraine-inducing conference of dyspeptic mobsters with bloated egos. When I got the call from Fort, I didn’t think twice about bolting. There’s sure to be some heat over the fact that I left without accomplishing any objectives and have nothing to show for the trip.
Plus, nobody gossips like a gaggle of fucking Mafia bullies. I can just imagine all the petty grumbling when Cass Tempesta’s deputy walked out with no explanation. My father is surely downstairs simmering and seething and waiting to chew me out.
That’s not my concern right now. My only concern is my wife.
My boots are caked with mud and I drop them on the floor before returning to her side.
“Cecilia.” I bring her hand to my lips. “Listen to me.Youare important.”
Her light brown eyes swim with tears. She blinks them away and lifts her chin. Sometimes she tries too hard to seize control of her emotions, unwilling to let them get messy. It’s a quality we have in common, one that I’ve admired in her from the day she arrived.
But in here, when it’s just the two of us, there’s nothing she can’t say to me or ask me for. And if she needs to cry, I’ll hold her in my arms and make a battle plan to eviscerate the source of her pain.
“You haven’t shaved,” she says, pointedly changing the subject and running her fingers over my bristled jaw.
“Haven’t showered lately either. It’s been a hell of a long night. Bad weather in London snarled air travel so we had to wait to take off. Then we needed to stop in New York to refuel.”
Her lips part and she leans forward. She’s on the verge of speaking when there’s a staccato rap on the door.
Unreal how I can’t even get a moment’s fucking peace with my wife.
My mood isn’t great when I throw the door open, only to find Getty standing there with a tray of food.
He pushes it at my chest and scowls when I don’t cooperate immediately. “Take it.”
“Did you lose a bet? Since when are you ranch room service?”
Nobody else can roll their eyes with as much scorn as him. “Mel thought you’d be hungry and she was about to carry it upstairs so I decided to save her the trip.”
“Hi, Getty,” Cecilia calls from the bed.
Incredibly, his hostile vibe evaporates and he cranes his neck to see into the room. “How’s the knee?” he asks and holy shit, he actually sounds concerned.
“Still works,” she says. “It just doesn’t look too pretty.”
He nods and then shoves the tray in my direction again. “Here. I’m not gonna spoon feed your ugly ass.”
I snatch the tray from his grip. “Thanks for the delivery. And for the pleasant attitude.”
“Points for consistency,” he mutters and backs up. “Go take care of your wife.”
“I always do,” I reply.
The way his eyes veer to my face as his jaw tightens implies he’s got something to say on the matter. I shut the door before he can share it.
Mel sent up biscotti, bowls of cut fruit and plenty of coffee. Cecilia shakes her head when I offer her some food and she’samused when I gulp about thirty ounces of coffee inside of a minute.
Unlike Tye, who snored like a pirate as we crossed oceans and continents, I haven’t had a minute of sleep. Now that the panic over reaching my wife has subsided, exhaustion begins to sink in.
Cecilia and I need to have a much more thorough conversation. But until I shower and let the caffeine take effect I’m not good for much.
