Page 55 of Of Murder and Matrimony

Dante climbed onto the bed and pushed me down flat, working his hips between my thighs and bracing himself with his forearms. “This is your room now, wife. Your place is with me.”

What was I supposed to say to that? It was what I wanted, anyway, wasn’t it?

I nodded, surrendering to his kiss. His cock hardened against my mound, but he didn’t move to fuck me again. Instead, he rolled off me and pulled me against him, covering us and slipping his arm underneath my body to curl around my waist.

“See?” He stroked the small of my back, pressing me closer. “Isn’t this better? Together?”

“Yeah,” I agreed, snuggling against his warm body and tucking my head against his arm. My fingers wandered up his arm and over his shoulder, feeling the raised ridges. It wasn’t as alarming as the first time, but my chest ached when I considered what could have caused the marks. “Will you tell me why you have these scars?”

“Someday.” Dante sighed but didn’t stop me from touching the marks. “But not tonight. I want to hold you. Feel that you’re real.”

I pinched his nipple playfully, and he flinched. Giggling, I kissed his throat. “See, not a ghost.”

“You were for far too long,” he whispered against my hair, breathing me in. “You smell like me, now. I like that. I’m going to keep you.”

“Good.” Exhaustion forced my eyes closed, and I listened to Dante’s breathing lengthen in sync with mine. This was what contentment felt like. It didn’t matter what was going on outside our bedroom walls. With Dante, the world faded away, and I was at peace.

He kissed the top of my head as I started to fade to sleep. “I love you, Olesya.”

Chapter Seventeen

The world had tilted on its axis in the past week. My need to use Olesya for revenge turned toward obsession to show her that my mindset had shifted. I still wanted to fuck over her brothers, but no longer would I use my wife as the tool. I just wanted to fuck Olesya.

Morning. Noon. Night. As often as she’d let me close to her.

I knew my focus was divided. No longer could I concentrate fully on my duties because I had nagging thoughts about Olesya. When I was checking out the warehouses, I wondered if I’d bought her enough clothes. So I ordered more.

When visiting Niccolò, I wondered whether Olesya should check up on him since she probably knew more about gunshot wounds than I did. So I asked Cosimo to order whatever a doctor might need to set up a makeshift clinic. I couldn’t allow Olesya to work outside the home in a hospital or office, but I could try to provide something for her on-site.

“Are you listening to me?” My father’s palm slapped against the surface of my desk, and I raised my head, meeting his irritated gaze.

“Yes,” I replied in a bored tone. “You hate the Russians. You want them to die. This is not news to me. I’m not sure what else you want me to do about it.”

“If I were at full strength, this never would have happened,” my father raged, pacing with the aid of his cane. Some days he went without, but after a morning of physical therapy, he needed the help to make it through the rest of the day.

I decided not to point out that the Russians had killed my mother before they shot him. “The difference now is they know we’re gunning for them. Everybody in the organization worth anything is being cautious.”

“They have to come out sometime,” he griped, tapping the cane on the floor.

“Nobody has seen Adrik or Yuri in two weeks,” I supplied, resisting the urge to drum my fingers impatiently on the desk.

“Then send scouts over to their building.”

Every week was the same, with my father demanding meetings, asking the same questions, ranting about the same things, and demanding the same unrealistic outcomes. While hits on heads of organizations happened, it was much more complicated than it seemed. The odds that the Zolotov men would let us within a block of the brothers were slim.

“We sent scouts.” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my desk and steepling my fingers. “They returned the last one to us in pieces. He didn’t even get close enough to survey for optimal explosive placement. Don’t you remember?”

Tipping my head, I waited for his answer. We’d already gone over the outcome of that little mission.

“Of course,” my father blustered, nervously adjusting the lapels of his black pinstripe suit. “I meant we should send more men. Send one as a decoy and hope the other gets through.”

I shook my head. “That’s a suicide mission.”

“Send somebody smart enough to get the job done, but still expendable.”

“I don’t view any of the men as expendable,” I explained tightly, sick of his flippant attitude toward the men who dedicated their lives to the family.

My father rolled his eyes. “No need for dramatics. You know what I mean.”

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