CHAPTER EIGHT

TROY

THERE WAS NOTHINGmore dangerous than a person with nothing to lose. That’s why I’d hired Sparrow to work at Rouge Bis, even though I knew she’d be close to him.

I wasn’t the controlling kind when it came to women. With my business, hell yes. But with a woman? If my wife wanted to work and was good at what she was doing, she can bust her ass for all I cared.

And Sparrow? She’d turned out to be a breath of fresh air. I was so used to the women around me not working or even entertaining the radical idea of doing something with their lives that I was genuinely surprised with how much Red wanted to work at the restaurant.

Love and compassion had nothing to do with my decision to give Sparrow a job. Having her out of the apartment occasionally might be nice. Her wicked smart mouth and endless questions grated on my nerves. Plus, putting a smile on her face wasn’t the worst idea I’d ever had.

I had to admit, the taste of her pussy in my mouth was fucking amazing. Not sure if it was the thrill of tasting what’s mine, only mine, pure and untouched before (other than that asshole, Paddy) or if it’d been so long since I went down on a woman that I forgot it was literally sweet. Either way, I’d enjoyed watching her as she crashed down, so close but not there. I wanted to snap that little spine of hers. Have her begging. Leave her wanting and lusting. Wanted to prove to her that she wanted me no less than I wanted her.

Well, her body, anyway.

But now I had to take matters into my own hands, so to speak. Bring my body down to a sensible temperature.

I hadn’t jerked off in maybe fifteen years, but when I leaned with one hand against the glossy black tiles, under the stream of scorching water, masturbating like a fucking teenager, I admitted it was oddly exciting. I laughed to myself like a madman as my hand relearned how to pump hard and fast to the beat of my new fantasies. Sparrow. Sweet, fucking Sparrow. Tight, lean, intelligent, annoying Red…

I‘d forgotten how good it felt to want something and not get it in a matter of hours.

I pumped harder, faster, imagining her legs wrapped around me. I came in my hand, squeezing the warm cum between my fingers, thinking about how good it’d feel to shoot my load inside her.

Yearning.

I hadn’t felt it in forever, and now it was growing on me.

And so was the thought of her warming my bed.

I BURNED THErest of the weekend doing fun stuff, like drinking in my study, plotting to destroy Rowan and thinking about eating my wife.

Brock’s weekend, meanwhile, seemed to have left him drained and irritated. A bonus, as far as I was concerned.

On Monday, he walked into his office at Rouge Bis—no, fuck that, my office. I was the one who footed the bill for the place. Not that he saw it that way. He stood in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, eying the glass desk as if I’d invaded his space.

“You look like shit.” I spat out my toothpick and wheeled the office chair backward so I could take a better look at him. “Rough night with the missus?” I cocked an eyebrow.

“Fuck you.”

I smirked. He and Catalina weren’t fucking nowadays.

I nodded at the chair in front of the desk, inviting him to sit down. He tugged at his breast pocket, fishing out a pack of smokes, his ass hitting the seat. He lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply and exhaling through his nose. The way he held the cigarette, between his index finger and thumb, like he was Clint Eastwood in a Western, made me want to laugh out loud. Instead, I glowered quietly.

“Smoking inside this building is prohibited.” I pointed to a sign saying just that behind me, barely containing my glee.

“So is every single thing you do, Troy. Don’t give me shit. I’ve had a rough morning. You needed me?” he asked.

“Trouble in paradise?” I tilted my chin toward the cigarette that hung in the corner of his mouth. Fuck, I bathed in his misery like it was pure water in the Sahara desert.

Brock sucked hard on the cig. This time his mouth hung open after he exhaled, a swirl of smoke traveling upwards. “Cat treats Sam like dirt.” He ran a hand over his hair. “This morning, he went to school wearing filthy clothes because she’s decided he’s not worth doing the laundry for. I almost flipped when he tugged at his shirt, seconds before I dropped him off, sniffing it to make sure he didn’t smell too bad. He said that he didn’t want kids to make fun of him. Man, this is the kind of shit that breaks your heart.”

He rubbed his eyes, continuing before he realized it was me he was confiding in. He must’ve been desperate. “Anyway, I did a U-turn. We ended up buying fresh clothes at Target, and he changed in the bathroom before I dropped him off. Spent the next thirty minutes sitting in my car in front of his school, practicing this stupid-ass breathing exercise from that tape you bought me for Christmas.”

I almost snorted. This was too much. The only reason I’d given him the tape was to piss Catalina off. She was whining like a bitch about Brock being too good and proper. It was a joke aimed at him. And he’d walked right into it.

Brock looked up at me, searching for my response.

I eased back into his soft leather chair and knitted my fingers together. “Some piece of work, your wife is. If you ask me, I always preferred the single life.”

“You’re married now,” he reminded me.

“I guess sometimes it’s easy to forget,” I said through my smirk.

He lolled his head sideways, stubbing the cigarette into an empty mug with a picture of him and Cat. Something she gave him to remind me of her every time I walked into his office.

It was cute how she thought I cared.

“I’m guessing you’re not here to discuss my marital problems.” Brock leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees, and tapped his fingertips. “Why are you here, Troy?”

“Patrick Rowan.” I cut straight to the chase, looking out the window, people-watching as I spoke. “I wanna know what ties he has left in Boston.”

Brock raised his brows, throwing himself back and sighing loudly. He didn’t like this turn of events, and I had no idea why. Rowan, my father’s right hand before everything flushed down the shitter, was just an old washed-up mobster. He’d kept the gambling piece of my father’s empire alive for him for a while even after my dad was dethroned, but eventually Paddy had branched out on his own. He’d high-tailed it out of the state to Miami when the Armenians decided they wanted his head on a plate. I discovered why a few months after my father was killed.

Yeah, Rowan had left enemies everywhere, but on Friday night, he’d made one too many of them in the form of me.

“Rowan?” He frowned. “Why?”

My jaw tightened when I thought about the answer to this question. Did I still hold a grudge against Rowan for stealing money from my father years ago? Sure. Did the fact that he touched my wife act as an incentive to finally seek retaliation? Hell yes. Was I in the mood to watch bad people paying for their sins? You fucking bet.

I’d hit a dead-end with my Kill Bill list, still not sure who sent Crupti to kill my father, and I wanted to play. Dealing with Rowan might take off the edge.

“Find out how to contact his second wife.” I ignored Brock’s question.

“What crawled up your ass? Got a new beef with Rowan all of a sudden? He’s rotting of cancer, you know. Leave him alone. You’re beating a dead horse.”

“Not dead enough for me,” I countered, picking up my own cell and punching the touch screen furiously. “I’m going to pay him a visit in Miami.”

“Are you sure? I’m not feeling comfortable about you harassing a guy who is dying of cancer.”

“I’m not paying you to feel comfortable, Brock. I’m paying you to follow orders.”

He stood up with thunder in his eyes, about to storm out of the room, when he stopped in his tracks. “Is he the guy who sent Crupti?” His voice cracked as he half turned.

Brock knew I was after the anonymous motherfucker, even had helped me seek him out.

“Just do as I asked. By the way…” I cleared my throat, avoiding the stream of hellos coming from my phone and watching Brock intently. “I hired my wife to work at Rouge Bis. Get whatever paperwork you need together for her. She’s starting next week. Make sure she and the chef don’t stab each other’s eyes out with a spatula.”

He turned back to face me. There was something unsettling underneath those gray eyes, and I wanted to rip them out of their sockets just to find out what.

“She’s going to work? Right here?” He glanced sideways, like there were hidden cameras watching him.

I nodded slowly. He knew that we had an arranged marriage, or marriage of inconvenience, or whatever the fuck Sparrow and I were.

He also knew why Sparrow was so important to my father.

I shrugged into my Armani suit jacket, looking bored with the topic. “She was nagging. Who the fuck cares anyway. If she wants to bust her ass instead of living a life of luxury, it’s her grave.”

“Mmm.” Brock scanned me, searching my face. “So, the tension is high between you two?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no. We’re fine.”

“And Pierre? He gave her trouble?”

“Who?” I didn’t even bother to pretend to recall the name, then remembered I still had my travel agent on the line. I swiveled the chair so my back was to Brock and waved him off, dismissing him like he was an average-looking day-shift stripper ogling me for tips. “Yes, I’d like to purchase two first class tickets to Miami…”