The Kiss Thief(74)

“Nothing a few bad press releases can’t ruin, I assume,” I quipped, getting to my point. It was hardly a social call, after all.

“What are you insinuating?” White barked, and I could practically see the spit flying out of his mouth. God, he was an awful-looking creature. I hated him a little extra for being a corrupted cop. A dishonest politician, I could handle. All politicians were corrupt, but some of them were still good. Being a corrupted cop made you a piece of shit. End of story. White represented the Chicago Police Department, something my late brother was a part of. I’d hate to think how Romeo would feel had he known White was the commander and chief of operations nowadays.

“I’m insinuating that you’re still not doing your job to my satisfaction. My wife was in a car chase yesterday. Bandini’s people.”

“How is she doing?” Bishop asked, not even a little interested.

“Save me the pleasantries. Life’s too short to pretend we give a damn about each other.”

“A: do not threaten my campaign under any circumstances, and B: give me direct instructions and I’ll pass them through to the source you need help with,” Bishop offered.

“I don’t think you get to talk to me about circumstances,” I snapped. The Jaguar rolled into the gates of my mansion. Today, I’d done something I hadn’t done in my entire career, not since I graduated from college. I took a day off.

I wanted to make sure that Francesca was feeling well and didn’t need to pay a visit to the hospital. Smithy opened the door for me. I stepped out.

“Right now, to soothe my growing anger with your client,” I highlighted, “I’d kindly demand that you tell him to keep his associates and himself far away from my wife. It’s in everyone’s benefit, yours included.”

“Fine,” White bit out.

Bishop stayed silent.

“You, too, Tiger Woods.”

“I heard you,” he clipped. “Are you going to hang this over our heads for a while now, Keaton? Because you’re starting to make enemies everywhere. First with you-know-who and his crew and now with us. Do you have any friends left at all?” He wondered.

“I don’t need friends,” I said. “I have something much more powerful. The truth.”





I found my wife in her vegetable garden, sucking on a thin cigarette and tending to her plants. She wore a long blue skirt and a white dress shirt. There was something strong and determined about her choice to follow her parents’ rules, even after they’d disowned her completely.

When I first met her, I thought she was a puppet. A shiny, pretty toy designed by Arthur Rossi that I could break. The more I got to know her, the more I realized how wrong I was. She was humble, modest, resilient, innocent, and well-cultured. The night of the masquerade, I ridiculed her for excelling in what her parents wanted her to become, completely disregarding the fact that being proper and well-behaved was much more daunting than being another defiant, rebellious, twenty-first century kid who wore short skirts and fucked everything that moved.

I mocked her for being rotten before finding out that she was a compassionate, good-willed woman.

Francesca wiped the sweat and soil from her forehead, turning around and walking to the shed to retrieve a bag of fertilizer. She stopped and rubbed her forehead, wincing. The bruise there was shallow but nasty and green. I stepped toward the shed, reaching behind her back and taking the heavy bag from her.

“Why are you so stubborn?” I accused as I carried it toward her vegetable garden. She followed me in her little boots and little everything, really. She was so pocket-sized, I often rehashed the night I was inside her, relishing how sweet and tight she’d felt. Not because of her virginity, but simply because she was her tiny self.

“Why are you always so…you?” She followed me, a bounce to her step. I stopped in front of the vegetables, realizing for the very first time how spectacular she’d made this garden. She grew actual things. Tomatoes and radishes and peppermint and basil. Flowers spilled from fresh pots, and there were rows upon rows of flowerbeds framing her little garden. It wasn’t my style. Too busy and colorful, a mishmash of too many species, sights, and scents. But it was the one thing about this place that truly made her happy other than Ms. Sterling.

“Who else would I be?” I answered, setting the bag next to her plants, careful not to squash them. I stood up straight and wiped my hands.

“Someone else,” she teased.

“Like who? Angelo?” Only an idiot would utter his name aloud at a time like this. But I made it perfectly clear that I could be a real jackass where my wife was concerned.

“I actually quite like you being you,” she said, hitching one shoulder up. I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling abnormally raw.

“You need to slow down.”

“I am. I took it easy today. Did my homework and only came out here a half hour ago. I’m getting ready to harvest the first round of veggies and send them off to the school down the road. It’s all organic.” She turned to face me for the first time, and my heart squeezed at the sight of her black eye and cut lip. I chucked her under the chin.

“That’s not slowing down. That’s speeding up. Don’t make me do something crazy.”

“Like what?”

“Like abduct you.”