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The door clicks open and a whoosh of the cooler, air-conditioned air filters over my face. I weave my way through the stucco walls of the back hallway, across the terrazzo tiled kitchen, moving toward the sunroom, where the tracking app on my phone shows a blinking red dot.
Her and those fucking plants.
My footsteps are silent as the sound of Beyonce singingPut a Ring on Itdrifts through the hall, mixing with Bijou’s off-key voice belting out the words without inhibition.
I take her choice of music as another sign. This is going to be fun.
So fun, I almost smile.
I grab a silent seat in one of the leather chairs flanking the fireplace in the living room adjacent to the glass walled solarium and watch her fussing over an enormous blooming orchid.
Her unzipped Minions backpack is on the floor next to a sleek walnut writing desk to her left, with a glass of iced-down Diet Coke sweating as it surely makes a ring on the wood surface—although there are a stack of coastersright fucking there, Bijou.
There’s an empty pack of those horrible Hot Cheetos sitting next to the drink and I chuckle knowing the tips of her fingers are stained with the reddish-orange powder of her favorite snack.
Also on the table, a copy ofIntroduction to Law: Legal Reasoning and Tortssits next to her open notebook and pride warms my chest.
She’s been top of her class since she started prelaw. Hell, she’s been top of her class since she started nursery school.
I wonder if one day, my wife will be my consigliere as well.
Maybe.
I don’t care if she just spends my money all day every day, but if she wants to work around making babies for me, I’ll allow it.
I rest my hand on the arm of the chair, the gun secure in my grip as I tap it on my thigh, watching her ample curves move under the fabric of her dress noting her lack of a bra and counting my blessings.
My mouth waters as she fusses in the greenhouse, belting out the next verse of the Beyonce song.
When she finally spins taking me in, her eyes widen, her mouth agape, the words of the song lost on her glossy pink lips.
She doesn't try to run. She stands rooted in place before a flicker of a smile lights on her lips.
I reach into my front blazer pocket and withdraw the little white business card, flinging it her way like a paper Frisbee. It lands on the slate floor in front of her feet. Her bare toes painted yellow and pink in a pair of dollar-store flip-flops.
She loves that fucking store.
I took her there soon after marrying her mother because she wanted to see all the things you could buy for a dollar. She was so fucking excited. She kicked off her thousand-dollar Dior Slides right there in the aisle and exchanged them for a pair of bright yellow foam flip-flops just like the ones she’s wearing now.
But she’s still a mafia princess, even with her second-rate mobster father trying to keep up appearances.
“What—” She swallows, her eyes locked on mine, the stainless-steel watering can in her hand starting to tremble as she swings her head toward the back door. “How did you get in—?”
“My house, remember?”
She squints, shaking her head as waves of her dark espresso-colored hair twine over her shoulders. “Mom’shouse.”
I shrug, nodding at the card on the floor.
“What’s this?”
“A problem.” I seethe as her eyes flash to the gun resting on my thigh. My thoughts are sick. The things I want to do with her sweet face cast me in a shroud of shame.
“Daddy…” she starts, with that flash of the little girl I used to know working to play me to her advantage. “What’s going on?”
“You haven’t called me that in a long time, Little Lamb,” I say as she bends to pick up the card, leaving the watering can next to her feet. “Sit.”
“I haven’tseen youin a long time,” she hisses with a poke of her tongue. “You deserted me.”
