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I’d rather be dead. It’s got to beat constantly dodging death, and the many men out there who want to put an end to me aren’t the only ones I need to be wary of. I’m more concerned about what my wife is capable of.
I look up at our villa as I exhale and drop my arse to the sand, fucking exhausted. Exhausted of running. Exhausted of fighting with Rose. Plain fucking exhausted. I grab the bottle of Scotch and swig some more—it’s probably unwise, I need my wits about me while my wife is on the war path, need the ability to duck speedily—but . . . fuck it. Let her at me. Like I said, I’m too exhausted to fight, and the weightless sensation coming over me is a brief respite.
I fall to my back on the sand and stare at the black, twinkling sky, taking another drag of my cigarette and another glug of Scotch, spilling some of it over my face as I do. For fuck’s sake. It was such a lovely evening—my little boxing match with Otto aside. What the fuck’s with that, anyway? Him? My mother? I snort, sucking back another hit of nicotine, followed quickly with another shot of the hard stuff. “Not fucking happening,” I say to the sky. “Over my dead body.” Which might be a distinct possibility if Rose gets her hands on me.
I lift my head a fraction, looking back up at the villa. I hope Mum’s managed to reason with her because I certainly couldn’t. In fact, I was like a red flag to a bull. I left the room on numerous occasions to let her calm the fuck down, and the moment I entered again, hearing she’d quietened, she’d flown at me, either with words or deranged, flailing, desperate arms. I restrained her more than once, since I couldn’t fuck her into submission with my mother and Otto there. So in the end, I forced myself to leave the house before she did any damage to herself or our baby. I feel
like a man on the edge of heaven and hell, and some unknown fucker out there will dictate which way I fall.
My wife might save him a job soon, though. And yet, I can’t be angry with her. Can’t be pissed off. I can’t blame her for flying off the handle. For throwing the vase at the wall. She’s pregnant and her emotions are all over the place. Next to that, I’ve promised that woman peace and failed to deliver it one too many times. I feel fucking hopeless. Useless. I know my wife better than anyone, and when she feels threatened, she fights. And as always, I’ll let her take her anger out on me.
I flick my cigarette away and finish the bottle, dropping it clumsily to the sand. The sky’s starting to spin. My thoughts are getting all tangled, telling me to go back to her. Deal with this mess. But I’m pretty sure she screamed clear instructions to never go back.
Unlucky for Rose, I can’t live without her.
I lift my head as far as I can manage and scowl at our villa. “And you love me too, woman, so stop being so f-f-fucking ridiculous.” My head hits the sand on a soft thud that feels anything but soft. “Bastard,” I grumble. Fuck me, I haven’t been this drunk in years. Not since Dad’s funeral. Not since I realized I’d fallen in love with the ice princess. “Why’d y-you have t-to be such a bitch?”
A face appears above me, and I squint hard, trying to get some focus. “Found him,” James calls.
“For fuck’s sake.” Brad appears, lifting his mobile to his ear. “We’ve got him.” He hangs up and gives me a nudge with the toe of his shoe. “You think this is gonna solve all our problems?”
“Fuck you,” I spit. “And go get laid. You’re a miserable fucker recently.”
“Well, there’s been no in-house whore for a while,” James says, and I chuckle, getting another nudge from Brad, this time significantly harder.
“I’m going before I beat him to death.”
“I’d like to see you try,” I yell to his back as he stomps off up the beach. “Don’t you know who I am? Be afraid, Brad. Be very af-f-raid.”
“What the fuck are you doing?” James mutters tiredly, bending to get closer, bracing his palms on his knees.
“What the fuck does it look l-l-like I’m doing?” I pat about on the sand and find my bottle, lifting it to my lips and swigging. Nothing comes out. I snarl and toss it aside. “I’m getting shitfaced. Get me another bottle.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?” I scramble to sit up, swaying something terrible. Fucking hell, just shut the fuck up, Black, and lie the fuck down before you throw up. “Don’t you know who I am?”
James laughs. Why’s he laughing? “Yes, I know who you are. You’re a man who’s in the doghouse. Come on, you prick.” He moves in behind me and hooks his arms under mine, getting me up with relative ease, considering I’m fucking legless. “Rose is upset.”
I laugh loudly. “Upset? Is that what we call fucking psycho these days?” I shrug him off and stagger a few paces, but quickly steady myself. I look down. My feet are in the water. And my arse feels a bit damp. “You know what I’m going to do?” I ask. “To fix this fucking mess?”
“Sober up?”
“I’m going to kill The Bear.” I start trudging up the sand toward my villa. “This is all your fucking fault, anyway.” Why’s t
hat only just occurred to me? This shitstorm is all James’s doing, because he’s the fucker who resurrected me. I was quite happy being dead.
I stop. Turn. Sway. Blink. His eyebrows are nearly touching his hairline. “I should kill you too.” Or at least punch his fucking lights out. That’ll make me feel better.
James’s arms open up invitingly, and I clench my fist. He’s goading me. I’m not so drunk I don’t recognize that.
“I’ve always wondered who’d come out on top between The Brit and The Enigma.” His head tilts. “So let’s find out.”
He has? I thought we were friends. The fucker. I draw back my fist, narrow my eyes, and swing, intent on planting a precisely placed fist on his jaw.
But it hits precisely . . . nothing. “Fuck,” I mutter, spinning on the spot before face-planting the sand. I roll to my back and find James looming over me.
“You done?” he asks as I spit out endless grains of sand. “Or do I have to knock you out and drag you back to your wife?”
“I’m staying at yours.”
He laughs. “You’ve got more chance of digging a hole here on the shore and finding The Bear.” He offers a hand. “I’m not joining you on the wrong side of your wife. Give me your fucking hand, you dick.”
I huff and throw out a disorientated arm, taking a firm hold, and James hauls me up, but this time he doesn’t let me go, supporting me as I stagger up the beach. “How’d Beau take the news?” I ask, hoping James is in the doghouse with me.
“You mean the news that the man who ordered the death of her mum and my entire family is, in fact, alive when we all thought we’d just executed a pretty fucking seamless plan and killed the fucker?”
“No, I mean the news that you’re a sarcastic knob.” I shove him away. I can walk on my own. “Yes, that news,” I grumble. “I was having a lovely evening until he called to let us know we killed the wrong man.”
“Me too,” James muses, and I look at him, albeit through drunken eyes, but I see the lost man who’s still lingering. For a brief moment, he and Beau had their peace. For a brief moment, it was sunshine and smiles. For a brief moment, we all thought that part of the story was over.
But when you’re me and James is James, it’s never really o
ver.
So, yeah, we’re all shook up. Some of us—like my wife—are fuming. Some of us, like Beau, are quietly contemplative. Others, like Brad, Otto, and Ringo, are thirsty for blood again.
And then there’s me.
Drunk.
But the alternative is a bloodbath, and I’ve not quite recovered from my most recent rampage in Miami. I need a rest.
There’s no rest for the wicked, kid.
“Oh fuck off,” I slur, making James recoil. “I’m not talking to you.” I stagger away, willing my dead father to leave me the hell alone. I do not need his input right now. “Call the men,” I order, throwing a hand in the air, as if all of them might see me beckoning them. “We need a mee-ee-ee-ting.” Let’s figure out some shit, make a plan, and kill that fucking bear.
Again.
“For fuck’s sake,” James breathes.
“Fuck.” I trip up nothing and land face first, getting another mouthful of sand. I start to spit and splutter as I get myself back to my feet again, marching on, determined. “I want meetings with . . .” I frown and turn to find James. “Who’s still alive?”
He shakes his head, in despair, I think, but he doesn’t get a chance to answer. Mum appears from nowhere and seizes me. “Where the hell have you b—” Her nose wrinkles. “You’re drunk.”
I roll my eyes. Or try to. “Just trying to numb the pain.”
“You’re hurt?”
“Yes, I’m fucking hurt. Didn’t you see my wife’s fist meet my fucking nose?”
“Oh, that.”
“Yes, th—”
“Oh good, you found him,” Otto grunts, and isn’t he like a red fucking flag to an angry bull? I don’t want to see that fucking fuck head. I watch as his hand meets my mother’s arm. “Where the fuck have you been?” he asks.
I look up at his bearded, pierced face. “Plotting your death.” I lunge, Mum cries out, and James yells, tackling me from the side and taking me down. I land with a grunt. “Let me at him,” I demand.
“Fucking hell,” James breathes. “You’ll be telling him to put
’em up, put ’em up soon. What are you, the fucking lion who found his courage?” James stands and hauls me up, walking me back from my target.
I scowl, fighting his hold. Obviously, I get nowhere. “My mother is off fucking limits,” I yell. “You even think about touching her again, you’ll have me to deal with.”
“I’m trembling in my fucking boots, Black,” Otto grumbles, earning a smack from my mother and undoubtedly a plead not to goad me.
“Okay, I think it’s bedtime.” James directs me toward the villa. “We’ll have our m-m-meeting tomorrow.” I’m shoved through the door where I find my wife, my fucking wife, the woman who is supposed to love me unconditionally, looking at me like she’s about to slap some conditions on me. I scowl. Or I try to. And then my eyes drop to her tummy. And I smile. I can’t help it. But I quickly remember . . .
We’re not talking.
“I hate you,” I hiss, jabbing a finger in her face. Her gorgeous, lovely face. “I hate you so fucking much.” I may be steaming, but I see her shoulders drop, all fight leaving her. She’s calm. I’m plastered. And as if to prove exactly how plastered, I start rocking back on my heels, forcing James to catch me.
“Can I have a cuddle?” I ask, pouting. “Please?” I ignore the chuckles behind me and open my arms, walking to her, my efforts to remain in a relatively straight line quite feeble. “I don’t want to fight.”
“You always say that after we’ve had a fight, but you seem quite set on fighting while we’re fighting.”
“What am I supposed to do, baby? Hide everything from you?” I take her chin and lift her face to mine, closing one eye to focus. Perhaps I should hide it all. Leave her here, go back to Miami, deal with it all, and come back. Hopefully in one piece. I feel like I’ve been tossed back to the beginning of this shitshow and have to sit through the entire crappy performance all over again. Except this time, I have no fucking popcorn. Or any fucking leads. And my wife’s fucking pregnant. Fuck my life. I rest my hands on her shoulders and she exhales heavily, taking my wrists.
“I don’t want you to hide anything from me,” she says.
“Then I won’t.” Bullshit, Black.
“How’s this happened?”
I squint, thinking hard, like I might find the answer. Of course I
won’t fucking find the answer, and in this moment, actually, I don’t want to. I just want to go to bed and cuddle her to death. Fuck the men. We’ll meet in the morning.
I turn, ready to instruct them all to fuck off, with the exception of my mother, of course, but find everyone has gone. “Where did they go?”
“Home, I expect.” Rose snakes an arm around my waist, and I start walking us to the bedroom. Leaning on her. Just a little. “Everyone’s been looking for you for hours.”
“I was on the beach getting drunk.”
“No shit.”
“No, really, I was.” I dip and push my mouth into her hair, just before we reach the bed, and she releases me. I fall onto the mattress. Room spin finds me immediately. “I’m rea”—hiccup—“. . . lly drunk.”
“You’re really fucking annoying, that’s what you are.” She unfastens my trousers and I look down on what I expect is a lopsided grin. Oh, yeah? I had hoped but didn’t want to assu—
“Forget it, Black,” she mutters, yanking my trousers down my legs and casting them aside before starting on my shirt.
“Did you say no to me?” I seize her wrist and still her, looking at her for an answer. The right answer. “I’m a mafia boss,
baby.”
“I know,” she purrs, dropping her lips to mine and kissing me softly. I sigh happily, opening up to her. “But tonight, you’re not a hard one.” She pushes into my soft dick as she bites my lip. “And this moll is too tired after stressing out over where her mafia husband had disappeared to.”
I scowl. “I was on the beach.”
“Yes, but I thought you’d left for Miami.”
I snort. “Without James and Brad?”
“And Otto and Ringo and Goldie.”
“Otto can fuck off.” I slam my head onto the pillow. “He’s banished.”
“Tell your mother that.”
“I will.” I grab Rose and yank her onto the bed, wrapping every arm and leg around her. Or try to.
“Still hate me?” she whispers, kissing my forearm where it’s curled around her neck.
“Always, baby,” I murmur. “And forever.”
Fuck. Me. To. Hell.
“No, no, no,” I mumble, rolling over, trying desperately to find a cool spot on my pillow.
“Yes, yes, yes,” a sweet, feminine voice sings back.
I still and scowl. Pout. Roll my eyes. I’m never going to live this down. Only twice in my life have I been drunk beyond drunk. It’s not me. I’m vulnerable under the influence. At risk. But the truth is, if I hadn’t drunk last night, I would have headed straight to the hangar, got on my plane back to Miami, and . . .
And blown the whole fucking city up.
It was a terrible idea. Worse than getting so drunk I feel like a few grenades have gone off in my skull.
My face squished in the pillow, I listen as the sound of her bare feet padding the floor gets closer. Her face appears, looking all too fucking smug. “You’re dribbling,” she whispers, leaning in and licking my lips. Naturally, everything inside lights up like fireworks and my blood starts pounding instead of my head. She smells so good. Tastes incredible. Feels like heaven. I find it in myself to push my hands into the covers and roll to my back, grabbing her wrist as I do and yanking her on top of me. But just as I’m moving in for a kiss to get us started, to get what I know is going to be a challenging day off to the best start, I detect a wave of worry fly across her face.
I withdraw. “What’s up?”
Her cheeks balloon, her hand slaps across her mouth, and she flies up from the bed, dashing across the bedroom. She doesn’t bother shutting the door—time is obviously of the essence—and a second later, the retching starts. I pout. “You okay, baby?” I call, dragging myself up, my hangover back with a vengeance. Self-inflicted, mind, so I’ll keep my gob shut. I make it to the door just as she brings up last night’s dinner, her body jacking, her arms braced on the seat.
“Fine,” she heaves, jolting again, bringing up dessert.
I wince, crouching behind her and rubbing her back, tucking some stray strands of hair into her hair tie. “It’s definitely a girl,” I say, pulling some tissue from the holder and passing it to her.
She inhales heavily and exhales even more so, dropping to her arse and slumping back into me, exhausted. I shuffle back until I find a wall, taking Rose with me, and settle against it, holding her between my legs, my arms wrapped around her chest. “How do you know?”
“Because only a woman could be this difficult.” I lean in and have a nibble of her ear as she chuckles weakly, snuggling into me anywhere she can. This is my Rose. Peaceful. “Feel any better?”
“Not really,” she whispers. “You?”
“Not really,” I admit, sighing into her hair. I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t know what happens from here. Returning to Miami was always on the cards, but we both—and by both, I mean James and I—felt a fuck load better about it with The Bear dead. Trying to sort business while ensuring Rose and Beau were safe was too fucking stressful. I don’t want to return to that. Dodging bombs, looking over my shoulder, arguing constantly with my wife.
Problem is, I don’t appear to have a choice in the matter, and Rose doesn’t react all too well when choices are taken away from us.
“What happens now?” she asks, and it’s hesitant.
Now, we go back to Miami and fix the fucking problem. Simple. But simple isn’t going to be easy, not on my health, and definitely not on my marriage. “Now,” I say, moving my hands to her belly, “you will do what you’re told and concentrate on this.”
Her hands land on mine, circling. “While you go back to war,” she whispers, the statement almost accepting. But what choice does she have? What choice do any of us have? His contact last night wasn’t just a courtesy call to let us know we’d failed to eliminate our biggest enemy. It was a warning.
And the mystery is reignited.
“Come on,” I say, encouraging her up. I sling an arm around her and walk us to the kitchen, placing her on a chair and collecting some of that green shit from the fridge she’s drinking a lot of lately. James got her onto it, and now I’m pretty sure she must be pissing the stuff. I pour some into a glass and pass it to her, setting the jug down and glancing around, listening. Something’s different. “Where’s the kid?”
“He stayed at your mother’s.” She takes a sip, her eyebrows high. I know what she’s thinking. She’s thinking I would hate for Daniel to see me drunk. She would be right.
“What are you doing today?” I ask.
“While you plot death?”
I give her a tired look and get myself some water, popping a few painkillers. “Rose, baby, I don’t want you stressing out.”
“Oh, Danny, please.” Her glass hits the table a little heavily, but I’m not concerned about having any breakables hauled at me. She’s too exhausted and can hardly hold herself up, let alone find the strength to chuck things around with any kind of force. This sickness is dragging out, but Doc’s happy, and if Doc’s happy, I’m happy. “Are you telling me not to worry about you?” she asks.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m telling you.” I get some pastries from the cupboard and load them onto a platter with some butter and jam. “Your worry is wasted because it’s all going to be fine.” I set everything on the table and take a seat beside her.
“Is that why you got roaring drunk last night, huh?” She accepts the Danish I slide in front of her and has a safe nibble.
“I was letting off some steam.” I point my butter knife at her. “It’s cheaper than smashing vases and bowls.”
Her scowl is half-hearted as she chews slowly, but I see her remorse. She’s a fiery fucker when she wants to be, and I know it’s pretty fucking sick that I love her fire. But she needs it being married to me.
“So what are you doing?” I ask again. Conversation done.
“Beau and I are going shopping, and I wanted to pass by the market and pick up some ingredients for that curry I mentioned, but now—”
“Now, what?”
“Well, now . . .” She tilts her head, her expression expectant. “What are you doing?”
She knows what I’ll be doing. I lick some jam off my fingers and sink my teeth around a croissant, filling my mouth and relaxing back in my chair. Her eyes drop down my bare chest. She pouts. Then leans over and gives my pec a little stroke. I watch her hand work over my flesh, across the small scar below my collarbone. “Feel better?” I ask, looking up at her, my voice low.
Her eyes jump up to mine. Her demure smile is my answer.
I’m up fast, grabbing her from the chair and getting her quickly but gently over my shoulder. Her squeal barely stabs at my brain. “You want to know what I’m doing? I will start by fucking my wife ferociously.” I drop her on the bed, and she immediately starts pulling off the T-shirt and wriggling out of her knickers as I kick my boxers off. I seize my dick and start working myself to full hardness, and Rose watches me, her hands falling to her boobs and massaging. My wife’s a walking sex bomb,
but I can’t say I’ve ever found her this sexy. Her boobs a bit bigger, her stomach a little rounder, her arse getting curvier. And the look in her eyes.
The mother of my baby. Keeping my hands off her has always been a challenge. Now it’s plain painful.
I look down at my weeping dick, my teeth clenching, and walk on my knees up the bed, still working my cock. I knock her hand away, smiling when her back arches, and dip, taking her boob in my mouth. Her groan is long and low. My heartbeats are hard and fast. “Oh, yes,” she breathes as I suck her nipple, relinquishing my hold of my dick and walking my fingers up her inside thigh, smiling when she spreads her legs farther.
“You want me to fuck you with my fingers, baby? Or my tongue?” I sink two fingers into her pussy and watch in fascination as her face contorts, her hands flying up to grip the headboard. “Or my big, hard, throbbing cock?”
“Yes,” she whispers, flexing her hips to meet my fingers’ drives. “All of it.”
All morning sickness and hangovers are forgotten. As is—I fucking hope—all thoughts of the sadistic, sick fucker that’s after us. I crawl down her body, shove my tongue past her pulsing, wet lips, and eat her pussy like it’s my last supper.
“Shit, Danny!”
Her constant yells push me on, encourage me, my eyes closing, my mouth ravenous.
And just when she’s about to come, I withdraw, flip her over, and ram my dick into her, fucking her hard, fast, and brutally. My roars and her screams must be heard across the island.
But still, I pump faster, grind harder, trying to pound my previous thought away.
My last supper.
