When She Loves: Chapter 3

My fist crashes into the man’s jaw with a sharp crack. “I have somewhere to be, Joshua. Stop wasting my time.”

He moans, blood and saliva leaking out of his mouth and onto the polished concrete floor.

The old white clock on the wall ticks past six thirty. I need at least a few minutes to get myself cleaned up before I head down for the rehearsal dinner.

“Pffease,” Joshua bleats through a mouth full of broken teeth. “Pffea—”

I punch him again. A few drops of blood land high on my forearm.

Fuck. I’d hoped this wouldn’t turn into such a fucking mess.

“The next time you say a word, make it one I want to hear.”

Behind me, Nero lets out a loud sigh. “Maybe he really doesn’t know anything. He’s a vain bastard. I don’t think he’d let you pummel him like this if he did.”

Joshua’s chin bumps against his chest. Did the fucker just pass out?

I kick him hard in the shin. Nothing.

Annoyance crawls up my spine. Joshua’s father, Conor Paddington, owns one of the biggest cement-pouring businesses in New York, and he’s been paying his twenty percent dutifully for over a decade. Then last week, he disappeared. Joshua took over in his stead, but the guy’s a certified idiot. He’s already fired their VP of operations, and it won’t be long until he runs the business into the ground.

If Conor is alive, we’re going to get him back, and my hunch is that the only person who knows where he is, is the son of a bitch before me.

“Get me the adrenaline.”

There’s a rustling sound behind me. A moment later, a syringe is placed in my open hand. I take off the cap and jab it into Joshua’s thigh.

The man intakes a sharp breath, his eyes springing wide.

I’ve really got to wrap this up. I pick up a serrated knife off the tray, grab Joshua’s hand, and start sawing off his pinky finger.

His screams fill the air.

I raise my voice so that he can hear me. “I hope you have an assistant to help you answer emails. You won’t be typing any time soon. Or ever, if you don’t start talking, right. Fucking. Now.”

When I reach bone, Joshua breaks.

“He’s at the house in Poughkeepsie! Jesus, fuck!”

I stop moving the knife. That’s an hour and a half from here. “What did you do to him?”

“He’s alive. Or at least he was when I checked on him a few days ago.”

I glance at Nero. My consigliere raises his hands in acquiescence. He’d thought Conor ran, but I told him there’s no way. Paddington’s not the kind of man to run away from his own problems. It’s why I’ve always liked him. He pays his protection money on time and in full. And we’re not the type of outfit that takes cash and doesn’t deliver on our end. That’s the kind of shit Stefano Garzolo used to pull, and look where he is now.

“Send a few guys to check it out, and tell them to take Doc with them. Conor might need medical treatment on the spot.”

Nero nods and leaves the interrogation room to make the call. I grab a towel and do my best to wipe my hands clean of Joshua’s blood so that I don’t leave bloody fingerprints all over the house once I head upstairs.

We have guests coming. My whole family is probably arriving upstairs right now, and while showing up with blood on my hands would certainly send a message to those who’ve questioned my judgment in the last few days, tonight is not the place or time.

Everyone is eager to get a glimpse of the woman I’m supposed to marry.

Especially since until two nights ago, they thought I’d be marrying her sister.

“Messero.” Joshua’s voice is no more than a low rasp. “Not everyone is as lucky as you. Your father croaked all on his own. Some of us have to take our fate into our own hands if we ever want to get to the top.”

I crack my neck. My father would have preferred it if I’d been the one who ended him. He loathed dying slowly, rotting like a vegetable in his bed while his kingdom slowly slipped through his fingers. In his last few days, he begged me to do it. To end his pain.

I smiled at him and repeated a line I’d heard him say very often. We can’t rely on anyone to save us but ourselves.

“You got impatient.” I throw the towel to the ground. “The plan you concocted was sloppy.”

Joshua shakes his head. “I was tired of sitting on the sidelines. I deserve more.”

Entitled piece of shit. I lean forward until we’re face-to-face. “You deserve nothing until you learn to not be a slave to your emotions.”

Joshua lets out a pained moan and starts mumbling something, but I’m done with this conversation. I turn away from him and head for the door.

I exit the room and lock the door behind me. Nero’s standing just outside, making the necessary arrangements over the phone. The hallway has low ceilings, so he has to hunch slightly to make his six-five frame fit. He glances at me and gives me a nod. There’s no need for me to stick around to make sure Nero carries out my orders. There aren’t many men I trust completely, but my consigliere is one of them.

I’m about to take the stairs when Nero calls out my name.

I glance over my shoulder. “What is it?”

Nero presses his palm over the phone’s receiver. “You sure about this?”

He’s not talking about Conor.

He’s also not the first person to ask me that question over the last few days.

I’m a man who likes to be in total control, and yet I’m about to marry a famously uncontrollable woman.

Cleo Garzolo has done everything in her power to make herself unattractive as a marriage prospect, including lying about losing her virginity to some kid. A lie that will hang over me until I display our bloody wedding sheets as proof that she was pure.

She’s erratic, has no sense of self-preservation, and drinks enough to qualify as a barely functioning alcoholic.

It’s understandable why my very traditional Italian family disapproves of her.

When Gemma, the Garzolo sister I was originally supposed to marry, said she was pregnant and that Cleo was willing to take her place instead, I agreed to the outrageous proposition before I even realized the words were out of my mouth. On paper, Gemma was the perfect woman to marry. But for some fucking reason, I found myself looking at Cleo whenever I was supposed to be looking at her sister.

“I’m collecting the payment Garzolo owes me.”

Nero snorts. “You’re so full of shit.”

“Watch it.”

“You wanted that girl long before she got served to you on a silver platter.”

I give him a warning look. Nero’s been by my side for nearly a decade, and he’s the closest friend I’ve got, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s my subordinate. We’re close, but not so close that I’d ever jeopardize my duty as don—to do whatever it takes to protect and grow my family’s power—for his sake.

That duty is why I’m marrying in the first place.

“Stefano Garzolo bargained his family away to stay out of jail. I can either get what he owes me through force, or I can marry his daughter. The latter is the logical choice for more than one reason. It avoids bloodshed. It also gets me a wife. At my age, I need one.”

Nero looks amused. “Right. Very logical. Tell me, what’s the logic behind all the times I’ve caught you staring at her tits?”

I purse my lips. Sometimes I forget how observant my consigliere can be. “She’s a beautiful woman, and I’ll enjoy having her in my bed,” I say dismissively.

“She’s not just beautiful, is she? She’s unhinged. And yet, you still said yes to marrying her. All that for a lay who’ll likely try to bite your cock off on your wedding night.” He barks out a laugh.

“She won’t bite anything off.”

“She’ll drive you fucking insane with her behavior.”

“Most of her misbehavior was aimed at avoiding marriage. She failed. Why would she continue to act out after she’s married to me?”

“Don’t think she’ll see it that way. She’s not pure logic like you are. She’s marrying you because of her sister, not because she likes you, and based on what we’ve seen of her, Cleo isn’t one to suffer in silence.”

I arch a brow. “Good to know you think she’ll suffer being married to me. How have you survived all these years by my side?”

“I often ask myself that question,” he says with a grin before his expression turns serious. “I’ve seen how she gets under your skin.”

Sometimes Nero overreaches. Nothing gets under my skin. Unlike Joshua, I’m not ruled by my emotions. My own father made sure of that.

I fold my arms over my chest. “You know what does get under my skin? My consigliere doubting me.”

Nero laughs. “I’m just trying to do my job and watch out for you. Keep an eye on your drink. She might try to slip poison in it.”

“You think she can conjure some out of thin air?” She doesn’t have access to anything remotely dangerous in the bedroom I’ve kept her in.

“If I had to bet on any woman being a witch, it would be Cleo Garzolo.”

“You overestimate her.” I turn away from him and head for the stairs.

“I think you’re making a big mistake by underestimating her,” he calls out after me.

I shake my head. Cleo’s erratic behavior is a product of her father’s incompetence. Stefano Garzolo is a fool. Cleo must have sensed his weakness and exploited it.

But there’s no weakness to sense in me.

I’ll give it a week before she falls in line.