The Kiss Thief(95)

“S-should I wait here?” White stuttered. I waved him off.

“Go back to pretending you’re good at what you’re doing.”

“You sure?” He wiped the sweat off his forehead, the blue vein in his neck still pulsing.

“You’re wasting my precious time and what’s leftovers of my patience. Go.”

Arthur led me to his office, giving me his back. Last time I’d been in his office, I demanded his daughter’s hand. As I walked up the staircase, the memories flooded in. It was on the landing where we shared one of our earlier banters. At the top of the stairs, I recalled how I clasped her delicate wrist in my hand and tugged her down forcefully after I thought she’d cheated on me.

Fucking idiot. Going around labelling White and Bishop as stupid when you’ve proven to be a clown more than one time in the span of your short marriage.

I knew Francesca was somewhere in the house, and I longed to see her pink smile and hear her throaty laughter that did not match the softness of her being.

“Give me one good reason why we’re heading into your office and not into my wife’s old room,” I said when my mouth cleared from the fog of everything my wife.

“Despite our differences, my daughter cares very much for my approval, and my giving it to you would help your chances when you talk to her. Now, Senator Keaton, we both know it’s long overdue that we settle the score.” He stopped by the door to his office and motioned for me to walk in. Two of his muscle guys stood on each side of the door.

“Get rid of them,” I said, still staring at him. He didn’t break our gaze as he snapped his fingers, making both of them descend the stairs silently.

We got into his office, and he closed the door halfway, obviously not trusting me not to throttle him with my bare hands. I understood him perfectly. Even I had difficulty predicting how I’d react, depending on the outcome of this visit.

He leaned against his desk while I took a seat on the couch in front of him, spreading my arms over the headrest and making myself comfortable. I knew two things with certainty:

Today was the day my love for my wife was going to be tested.

I was going to pass with flying fucking colors.





Like a moth to a flame, my feet dragged me out of my room and to the hallway the minute I heard my husband’s gruff tenor. His voice was a poem, and I drank every word as if my life depended on it.

I caught his back, his broad shoulders and tailored suit as he glided through the corridor, ushered by my father into his study. I counted one, two, three, five, eight…ten seconds before I tiptoed my way to the study. Weeks of watching how Ms. Sterling eavesdropped had taught me some invaluable tricks. My barefooted figure was pressed against the wall, and I took shallow, measured breaths.

My father lit a cigar. The aroma of burnt leaves and tobacco hit my nostrils, and nausea washed over my gut. God, I felt sick every time someone breathed in my direction. I peeked into the room, fighting the bile bubbling in my throat. My father leaned against his desk, my husband on the red velvet settee in front of him, looking relaxed and nonchalant as ever.

My husband, metal and steel.

Formidable and untouchable.

With a stone-carved heart I’d do anything to soften.

“I suppose you think that you can walk into her room and claim her back. Hang White and Bishop over my head again as leverage,” my father said, puffing on his cigar, his legs crossed at the ankles. He had yet to acknowledge my existence since I’d moved back into the house, but he didn’t let that deter him from blackmailing my husband. With every fiber of my body, I wanted to burst through the door and set the record straight. But I was too humiliated and hurt to risk another rejection. Wolfe might’ve come here to let me go, and I was done begging.

“How is she doing?” Wolfe ignored his question.

“She doesn’t want to see you,” my father replied curtly, sending another waft of smoke into the air and ignoring the question at hand.

“Have you taken her to the doctor?”

“She hasn’t left the house.”

“What the hell are you waiting for?” Wolfe spat.

“As far as I can remember, Francesca was old enough to get pregnant. She is therefore old enough to book an appointment with an OB-GYN. Not to mention, if anyone should help her, it should be the man responsible for her dire situation.”

Dire situation? My nostrils flared, hot air coming down from them like fire.

It was the moment in which it dawned on me that my father was completely irredeemable. He didn’t care for me or the baby. The only thing he cared about—ever—was The Outfit. He loved and adored me when I was his puppet. And at the first sign of defiance, he discarded me and shook off any responsibility toward me. He sold me. Then lost his interest in me when he could no longer marry me off to another strong Italian family. Wolfe, however, stuck around through thick and thin. Even when we antagonized each other. Even when he thought I’d slept with Angelo and saw me kissing him, and when I defied him again and again and again. The word divorce never left his mouth. Failure wasn’t an option.

He showed me more loyalty than my father did.

“Good point.” Wolfe stood up. “I’ll take her to the doctor right away.”

“You will do no such thing. In fact, you will not be seeing her tonight, at all,” my father retorted.