Page 76 of Ruthless Roses

It’s not every day you find out your husband and firstborn baby son are almost mowed down on the road.

“Shhh, Phi… we’re okay now,” I hush, kissing the top of her curly head.

Meanwhile, she’s doing the same to Dominic, clutching him close, and kissing him and feeling him all over.

“He looks greener than usual, like he’s sick,” she says to Dominic’s soft gurgle.

“Phi, our private physician checked him out. He says he’s fine. The car chase rattled him a little, but he’s going to be okay.”

“Why would Clay Palmer come out of the blue like this to attack us? I don’t understand.” Tears come to her eyes.

“Shhh,” I say softly, then guide her toward the staircase. “Let’s put Dominic to bed first. I have something I need to talk with you about. Something you’re not going to like.”

Her body protests against mine. I can feel her resistance to let me escort her upstairs. A debate of whether she should stand her ground and demand I tell her in this exact moment. In the end, as Dominic gives a tired yawn and rests his cheek against her chest, she seems to decide it’s more important we get him settled in.

The energy she exudes is a contradiction—some kind of mix of deep maternal care and something else.

Something I’ve picked up from her many, many times before, even if it’s been a while, and it’s always been something that’s a secret about Delphine.

Her bad side.

It’s a part of her personality she keeps hidden from almost everybody else except me. Only I know the true extent of the things she’s done and what she’s capable of beneath her beautiful, poised exterior.

Somebody, somewhere fucked with her child. Somebody, somewhere has incurred the wrath of Delphine Rose Adams Mancino.

The problem is, she doesn’t realize just who was behind it. That’ll be the true test. The real difficult part for Phi.

I give Delphine time to get Dominic settled in for the night. It’s partially selfish so I can have a moment to sort through the final gist of what I’m going to tell her.

The details she needs to know and the manner in which I’ll lay it all out.

I don’t bother changing my clothes. I still have some blood on them from when me and some of my men roughed up Andre and the other guy from the SUV.

I’m focused on the matter at hand. I’ve transcended the brute anger I felt earlier during the car chase and at the club. It’s crossed over to cold, methodical, and homicidal. The murders I will be committing are no longer motivated by emotion; they are simply what needs to happen for our survival.

An hour passes before she seeks me out. I’m in my home office peering out the window at the darkening grounds of our estate. Her reflection appears in the glass. She’s changed into a satiny nightgown and robe that hang loose on her frame and ripple when she walks, drawing attention to her ever-growing belly.

“Tell me,” she says simply. She steps into the room and closes the door. Her tone’s direct and matter-of-fact, like we’re in the courtroom.

I appreciate this—it makes it easier to get to the point.

Turning away from the window for a look at her, I say, “Your father was behind this.”

Her eyes darken. Her brows knit at the same time her full, heart-shaped lips press together.

No words are needed; I understand what her expression is asking.

She already knows the answer.

Our nonverbal communication remains unmatched.

“He hired some underground crime lord to do it, Phi,” I say. “Clay Palmer.”

“The same Clay…”

I nod my head. “He tried to accost you on the street. He had his guys try to run me and Dom off the road.”

“You’re certain my father…?”

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