Brutal Prince Bonus Scene (Brutal Birthright, #1.5)(60)

“Didn’t know you could fight, rich boy,” Nero says, looking at me in mild surprise.

“That wasn’t much of a challenge,” I say. The mechanic has to be at least fifty and a good six inches shorter than me.

Shows how terrified he must be of Zajac. He preferred to face the three of us rather than have to explain himself to the Butcher.

“Still,” Dante says, “that was pretty fast.”

“Shaking hands and slapping backs is new for me,” I shrug. “I still remember how to get my hands dirty.”

“Fergus knows how to fight,” Dante says. “They used to call him the Bone Doctor, didn’t they?”

He’s referring to my father’s stint as a debt collector and enforcer, before he took control of what remained of the Griffin family.

“That’s right,” I say.

My father could put a spiral fracture down a man’s arm with a twist of his wrist, if that’s what was required to enforce the payment plan.

He definitely taught me a few things. The number one thing he taught me is never to fight when you can negotiate instead. Because the outcome of a fight is never certain.

The problem is, I don’t think Zajac wants to negotiate. Not without spilling a little blood on the floor, first.

Aida arrives home only a little after I do. She comes up to the library, and I fill her in on what we’ve been doing.

I can tell she’s annoyed at being left out of the morning’s activities, but I will keep my promise and bring her along tonight, if that’s what she really wants.

When she heads into our bedroom to drop off her books, Jack pokes his head into the library.

“Can I talk to you for a minute, boss?” he says.

Jack and I have been friends a long time. He got himself in trouble back in our college days. He was dealing Molly at parties to pay for the trust-fund lifestyle, without actually having the trust fund. When the cops raided his dorm, he had to flush about $28K of product. I paid off his supplier, then had Jack come work for me instead.

He’s been a good employee and a good friend, if a little overzealous at times. Like with Aida’s brother on the pier. And sometimes with Aida herself. Aida may drive me up the fucking wall, but she’s still my wife. If Jack didn’t learn his lesson down in the kitchen, I’ll be quick to educate him again.

“I picked the girls up at school,” he says.

“Good.”

“Aida was talking to someone.”

I give him a sharp look in case he’s trying to start shit again.

“She’s allowed to do that,” I say.

“It was Oliver Castle.”

My stomach clenches up in a knot. If he had said any other name, I would have ignored it. But I can’t help feeling jealous of that shit-for-brains wannabe playboy. As far as I know, he’s the only actual boyfriend Aida ever had, and for some reason that eats me alive. The thought of them swimming on some tropical beach together, laughing and talking, Aida in a bikini with her skin more tanned than ever . . .

It makes me want to rip Castle’s face off his skull.

Plus, I know damn well he doesn’t go to Loyola. So he was on campus for one reason only.

“What did he say?” I demand.

“I don’t know,” Jack says. “I couldn’t get close enough to hear. But they were talking a while.”

I can feel my eye twitch. Aida didn’t mention anything about Oliver. Didn’t mention seeing him.

“You’re sure it was Castle?”

“One hundred percent. He left right after they talked, and I followed him back to his car. The gray Maserati.”

I nod. That’s definitely him.

“And there’s something else,” Jack says.

“What?” I bark.

“They kissed.”

The floor seems to drop out from under me.

I completely forget about Zajac. All my anger, all my desire for violence and revenge is turned on Castle instead. If he were in the room right now, I’d shoot him in the face.

“Thank you for telling me,” I say through stiff lips.

She kissed him. Then she came home to me, cheerful as ever, like nothing happened.

Maybe to her, it is nothing.

After all, we never really talked about this. We never promised to be faithful to each other. Our marriage is a business arrangement, I can’t forget that. The vows we spoke mean nothing, not really. The only real promises were the ones made by my father and hers.

Still, it gnaws at me.

Is she meeting up with him secretly? Are they fucking? Does she love him still?

I’m going to ask her.

I stride down the hallway to our bedroom, determined to confront her.

When I push my way through the door, she’s typing something on her phone. She closes it out abruptly, swiping upward to change apps, then flipping her phone over and laying it face-down on the bed.

“What’s up?” she says.

“What were you doing?” I say.

“What do you mean?”

“Just now. On your phone.”

“Oh,” she says, cheeks slightly pink. “Just adding some new songs on Spotify. Gotta make a victory playlist for after the election.”

She’s lying. She was typing a message, I’m sure of it.