Page 29

It burns, deliciously so, while going down. Good. I pour myself another drink, forcing my mind to calm the fuck down. But it’s fucking hard to do with this level of insult.

One of my men scared my wife. In my house. In her home.

The audacity of it crawls under my skin like something alive. Have I become so motherfucking lax that my own men think they’re welcome to whatever woman they find in my home? I know Greg wasn’t at the wedding, but surely rumor spread fast enough for him to know I married Kira.

Greg had better not have touched her. The thought is a cold stone in my gut. If he laid a finger on her, there won’t be enough of him left to identify. Needing to know exactly what happened, I pull up the security feed from the night of the wedding, fast-forward through the empty hours until I see movement.

There she is. Kira.

Walking down the hallway in that black lace, barefoot, calling my name. The camera catches the way she holds herself, the quick glances over her shoulder. Then Greg appears, moving toward her with a lazy grin.

“Hello there, kitten. Are you lost?”

“Who are you?” She takes a step backward.

“I’m much more interested in who you are. Are you one of the Don’s whores? Because if you are, you should know he often lets us have his leftovers.”

I watch her face, seeing the exact moment she realizes she’s not safe. The little scream she lets out is barely audible. Then she turns and runs back to the bedroom. Greg watches her go, his grin wide, and the second she slams the bedroom door, he licks his lips and laughs darkly.

Luckily for him, he doesn’t follow. But it doesn’t matter. The damage is done.

Why the fuck didn’t she tell me? Oh, right. Greg led her to believe I share my women, which I don’t. Never have and never fucking will. Besides, I’ve never brought women around here before.

Paolo and I moved into this penthouse after his mom wasn’t around anymore. And the only women who’ve ever entered this place are the staff and a few of Paolo’s fuck buddies, as he called them. And even that only lasted long enough to move him into the apartment below.

As for me, I would go to one of my other buildings when I wanted to get my dick wet. And again, I. Never. Fucking. Shared. So it seems like Greg’s either delusional or has grown too complacent in his role. I’m not sure I care which.

Closing the footage, I move over to the window. I watch the city below, counting minutes until Gio arrives. Luckily, it doesn’t take long before the elevator chimes and I hear voices in the entryway. I leave the office and go to meet them in the hallway.

As soon as I enter, Greg grins at me. “Hey, Boss. What’s up?”

What’s up? Is this joker kidding me? Unable to ignore the anger coursing through my veins, I ball my hand into a fist and hit him. One punch, straight to the nose. I feel the cartilage give way, the warm spray of blood across my knuckles.

He goes down hard, catching himself on one hand, the other pressed to his face. Blood pours between his fingers, dripping onto the oak floor. Gio steps back, surprised. To his credit, he doesn’t ask questions or betray that he has no clue what’s going on or why Greg’s in trouble.

“What the fuck?” Greg’s voice is muffled behind his hand. “What did I do?”

“You need to ask?” I snarl. “That’s not good for you.”

“I-is this a-about…”

“Yes?” I prompt as he stops talking.

When he doesn’t continue, I kick him hard in the ribs. He folds with a sound that’s half groan, half whimper.

“T-the woman,” he wheezes. Ahh, so he knows how he fucked up. At least that’s something. “I didn’t know that was your wife.”

“It doesn’t fucking matter if you knew.” My voice is more snarl than anything else. “If you’ve done it once, you’ve done it before. Thinking you’re entitled to things that aren’t yours. People who aren’t yours.”

“N-never one of y-yours,” he cries.

I scoff, unimpressed. “Because unlike what you told my wife, I never bring women around here. And I certainly don’t share them.” I crouch down, bringing my face level with his. “And even if I did share, Greg, it would never be with someone like you. Are we clear?”

His breathing is ragged, shallow. “Y-yes.”

“You frightened my wife,” I say. “In my house. The only reason you’re still breathing is because you didn’t touch her.” I watch the blood trail down his chin. “You’re going to apologize to her. When she gets here, you’re going to get on your knees and you’re going to beg her for forgiveness.”

He’s shaking. Whole body trembling. “I’m sorry,” he says, the words wet with blood. “I didn’t… I wouldn’t…”