Page 56 of Of Murder and Matrimony

“I’m not sure I do,” I countered, tapping my index fingers together. “Why don’t you explain it to me.”

“It’s not your place to question me,” he hissed. He tried for intimidation, leaning on my desk and looming over me, but it was less than impactful. When I sat, I wasn’t much shorter than him, and he reeked of desperation. Weakness was never a good look.

I shrugged it off. “Of course.”

My father nodded succinctly, gloating as if he’d won. “Good. I expect to hear how the next scouting mission goes by the end of the week.”

He turned and stood tall, his cane tapping against the wood floor as he left my office and slammed the door behind him. The stench of his pungent cigar habit lingered in the air, prompting me to push myself out of my chair and open the window to air the room. I sighed, leaning against the wall, closing my eyes, and breathing the fresh air.

My father was a pain in my ass, but as things stood, there was nothing I could do about him. When he’d been shot in the church, I hoped he’d succumb to his injuries, but the old bastard was tough, and the bullet wound wasn’t severe enough to do the job.

My phone vibrated, moving from where I’d put it on my desk. I reached for the device, finding Stefano’s name on the screen. I swiped to answer. “Yes?”

“Everything is ready for Mrs. Neretti,” he answered without preamble.

“Perfect.” My lips parted into a smile at the news I’d been waiting on. How unlike me to show emotion involuntarily. “Do you know where my wife is?”

“Last I saw, she was in the rose garden,” he said.

“Thank you.” I ended the call and slipped the phone into my pocket.

I understood what people meant by having a spring in their step as I went to find Olesya. My body seemed lighter with my excitement. If anybody had seen me as I practically skipped down the stairs, they would have thought I’d lost my mind. I laughed to myself. Like father, like son.

Olesya was still pruning my mother’s roses when I stepped onto the expansive back patio. She wore white linen shorts that covered all the necessary parts when she bent over and a loose-fitting buttery yellow tank top. And those white sandals. I would have to buy her a second pair; she would wear out the first soon. Her hair was pulled into a bun, but a few strands of honey-blonde hair had escaped to frame her face.

Diego sat in a chair out of the sun, sipping a glass of what looked like lemonade, his gun resting in his lap the only indication he was on duty. When he saw me, and I lifted a brow accusingly, he had the good sense to look ashamed, setting the drink back on the table before him.

My wife was oblivious, carrying on her mostly one-sided conversation. “I’ll make sure I talk to him about ordering ballistic vests. I’d prefer it if you didn’t get shot again.”

“I’ll try my best,” Diego answered like a child who had been reprimanded, as if he were responsible for the bullet wound. He glanced at me, and I covered my grin with my palm, watching him try to appease my wife.

She dropped another stem into the bucket at her feet, oblivious to my approach. I stood close enough to breathe in her jasmine scent. “Those stitches can come out in a couple of days, but if you want a little extra time to recover, I can tell Dante—”

“Tell me what, Olesya?” I interrupted, running my fingers through the sweat gathered at the nape of her neck.

She froze and slowly turned to face me, her eyes wide. “Dante.”

“Yes.” I kept my eyes locked on hers as I licked the salty taste of her from my fingertips.

She bit her lip nervously. “I didn’t know you were there.”

“Clearly.”

She recovered quickly, squaring her shoulders. “Did you need something?”

“Yes,” I answered, straightening my black suit jacket. It was already too warm outside. “But I’d rather hear about how you’ll help my men avoid their responsibilities.”

“I don’t need extra time, Mr. Neretti,” Diego gruffed from his seat. “I’m good.”

I glanced at his stormy expression before returning my attention to Olesya. “If you start coddling my men, you’ll make them look bad to the others.”

“Oh, come on,” she protested, pulling her gardening gloves off and dropping them into the bucket with the shears, then crossing her arms in front of her chest. “That’s such an antiquated view.”

“Patriarchal as it may be, it’s the way things are.” I shrugged. “You cannot walk in and change generations of expectations. Weakness—even perceived weakness—is a death sentence in this life. You’d do well to remember that.”

Olesya glanced warily at Diego, and his expression softened. If she didn’t already have him wrapped around her little finger, she soon would. Her shoulders dropped as she sighed. “I’m sorry. I was trying to be helpful.”

I bent to kiss her softly, dipping my tongue in to taste hers before pulling away. “I understand. Why don’t I show you a better way?”

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