The Kiss Thief

LONG BEFORE I REALIZED THAT Francesca Rossi was in existence, I’d studied her father’s workday closely. Seeking revenge was a full-time job, and the more you knew, the more thoroughly you could ruin. I looked for weakness in his business, and loopholes in his contracts, when actually, his daughter was his most-valued possession. Both more fatal and more personal than any strip club I could shut down. The problem occurred when I realized that Arthur no longer treasured his daughter. As far as he could tell, she was no longer his ally. And to make matters worse, she married a man who was determined to kill his business, not inherit it.

The game had changed.

Arthur allowed Mike Bandini to target his daughter.

Because his daughter was also my wife.

And my wife, I foolishly proved to him, was important to me.

My Jaguar stopped in front of Mama’s Pizza restaurant in Little Italy. It was a quaint place that smelled of freshly baked sourdough and tomato soup and my goddamn sorrow. The business lost mountains of money every month but made for a great money-laundering venue. It was where The Outfit had their daily meetings. Whatever dark feelings I harbored toward Mama’s Pizza weren’t enough to keep me from making my point to those idiots.

Smithy got out of the vehicle and opened the back door for me. I waltzed into the restaurant, ignoring the plump, disoriented lady behind the counter, and went through the door behind her. Stepping into the dim room, I found ten men sitting around a round table. It was the old checked white and red Italian BS, complete with a yellow, half-burned, unlit candle. Behind it sat my father-in-law.

Round tables broke hierarchy.

Last time I’d been to Mama’s Pizza—the table was square, and Arthur Rossi was at the head of it.

And behind him hung a glassed window covering shotguns. Picture-effin-esque.

I sauntered toward him, the annoying woman behind me yelling and apologizing in one breath, and flipped the table with all its contents—beer, wine, water, orange juice, and breadsticks—over the laps of the men in front of it. They sat there, mouths slacked, watching me through a curtain of shock and anger. I was standing in front of Rossi, his dress pants soiled with the wine he’d been drinking. Next to him sat Mike Bandini, Angelo’s father, who slowly began to rise from his chair, no doubt about to either run or point a gun at me. I grasped his shoulder, digging my fingers in until I met his bones through his skin, then pushed him back into his chair, and kicked it across the room. The chair’s wooden legs skated a foot back from the force. I glimpsed at Arthur, pleased to see that his palm was still wrapped up from the night he stained the white sheets with his own blood.

“How’s your face today, Bandini?” I smiled good-naturedly at Angelo’s father. He sucked his teeth in, smirking at me.

“In one piece.” His eyes looked left and right, trying to assess everyone else’s reaction to my surprise visit. They were pale as ghosts and crapping their pants. I wasn’t the police. Them—they could deal with. I was the man who had the power to get White fired, and worse—plant Bishop and Rossi in such deep shit they’d never climb out of it. But getting rid of me didn’t work, either. And now, it was out of the question. I had my driver and two security men parked up front.

“That’s good to hear because my wife’s face isn’t. In fact, her nose is still bleeding.” I threw a fist to his nose without warning, making all the men around us stand in unison, only to have Arthur motion for them to sit down with his hand, his lips thinning into a fine line. Mike’s head reared back, his chair flying backward and falling to the ground, him inside it. I took two steps and swallowed the distance between us.

“Her ribs are sore, too,” I added, kicking Mike in the ribs. Everyone around us sucked their teeth in, furious with the vulnerability of their situation. I took a handkerchief out of my breast pocket and wiped my hands, sighing theatrically. “Last but not least, her lips are sore. I’m going to let you choose—fist or foot?” I glanced down at him, cocking my head. Waking up in my wife’s bed was an unpleasant surprise. But feeling her ass digging into my erection with little finesse as she tried to please me was definitely something I could get used to after what seemed like a lifetime without actual sex. I knew she was too sore, but still couldn’t resist the urge to dry-fuck her under the sheets. So I did just that; I unbuckled my dress pants and pressed my shaft against her ass cheeks. After I came on her nightgown, I left her room, ordering Ms. Sterling to make sure that she drank, ate, and didn’t do any heavy lifting. Right before I picked up the phone and had Zion hire a bodyguard for her.

“Fist.” Mike grinned, his teeth covered in blood. A mobster, after all.

“Foot it is, then. I don’t take any orders from you.” I smashed my Oxford-clad foot right into his face and heard a crack as his nose smashed to pieces. Stepping back, I strolled around the room. I, too, had better things to do with my day than spend it with men who ruined my hard work for a living.

“I’m feeling charitable today. Maybe it’s the bliss of being a newlywed. I’ve always been a hopeless romantic.” I scanned Arthur’s twisted face and the soldiers around him, who sat with the kind of electric defiance that rolled off their red-blooded bodies. Fists balled, chins high, feet tapping over the floor. They were dying to beat the hell out of me but knew I was depressingly untouchable.

I wasn’t always like this, though. And Arthur Rossi was the sole reason for my weaknesses.

“So I’m going to spare the bastards’ lives who did this to Francesca. But I thought a gentle reminder—and trust me, this is my idea of gentle—was more than necessary. I have the power and the means to shut you down completely and kill every part of your business. I could make sure all your recycling and sanitation projects are terminated. I have the power to purchase all the competing restaurants and bars to yours, throw money at them, and watch as they put yours out of business. I could make sure your families don’t have a breadcrumb to eat for dinner, and that your medical bills are unpaid. I could send the FBI to your underground gambling joints and whorehouses. I could reopen cases that have been dormant for years and hire enough investigators to populate your streets”—I took a deep breath—“and I could bleed you dry of every dime you own. But I’m not doing that. Not yet, at least, so don’t give me a reason.”

Arthur frowned. Up until now, he stayed silent. “Are you implying that I harmed my daughter, you slimy little shit?”

“Bandini’s muscle did.” I pointed at his friend, who was standing up from the floor and wiping his face of blood. Arthur turned to Bandini sharply. Oh, brother. He didn’t even know. His empire was falling apart. His power diminishing by the minute. It wasn’t necessarily a good thing for me. A weak king is a mad one.

“Is that true?” Arthur spat out.

“He put my son in jail the day of their wedding.” Mike spat blood into a trash can. I walked over to Mike, balling his collar in my fist and tugging it so he looked up at me.

“Get anywhere near my wife again, and I shall consider it an act of war. A war I am more than equipped to finish, and in record time,” I warned. “Understood?”

He averted his gaze from me, unwilling to see the determination in my eyes. “Fine, stronzo, fine!”

“Same goes for your son. I catch him near her, and he’ll be sorry your wife was drunk enough to permit his conception.”

“Angelo can do whatever he wants,” he gobbed, waving his fist in the air. “Leave him out of this.”

“We’ll see about that. Rossi,” I said, turning from Mike. Arthur was already standing up, refusing to go down without a fight. I’d dreamed of this moment for many years. Holding such power over his head. And now, when I finally had it, I felt nothing but disdain and wariness. Coming here was an uncalculated risk. These men had no moral compass, and if Francesca ended up six feet under, I’d never be able to forgive myself. I was the one who got her into this mess in the first place.

“Put your soldiers and associates on a shorter leash,” I ordered, pointing at his face.

“You mean, like your wife does to you?” He patted his pocket and produced a cigar, sticking it between his lips. “She seems to have taken over your better judgment. You’d have never showed up here months ago, and you wanted my head even back then,” Arthur said.

“I have your head.”

“You’re playing with your food, Senator Keaton, instead of going in for the kill. You’re enamored by a teenager, and that wasn’t in your plan.”

“Give me your word,” I repeated, feeling a tick of annoyance flickering behind my eyelid.

Arthur waved his hand. “I will not hurt my own daughter and will make sure no one in this room does either. She is, after all, my flesh and blood.”

“Don’t fucking remind me.”

On the way home, I put Bishop and White on a conference call. I knew two things: they weren’t going to turn the conference call down, aware that I had too much ammo on them, and that they didn’t want me to leak anything over the phone—for exactly the same reason. The problem was that I was sick and tired of corrupt assholes getting their way. Especially when innocent people were being hurt in the process.

Especially when one of those people was the woman who had my ring on her finger.

“I heard that you paid quite a visit to our friend.” Bishop was golfing by the sounds of carts and sunshine laughter on the other line. White remained silent.

“How are you doing, Preston?” I asked, getting comfortable in the back seat as Smithy zigzagged through the busy Chicago traffic. I did not acknowledge Preston’s remark about my visit to Arthur because, as far as I was concerned, I’d never been there. I took one of Francesca’s Zippos out of my pocket, flicking it on and off absentmindedly. Something—hell if I know why—possessed me to take it with me when I left her room this morning.

“I’m fine. Is there a particular reason why you’re asking?” Preston grated into the phone with audible annoyance. White took a labored breath, waiting for my answer. It sucked when the only person holding the cards in the conversation was a green politician with a vindictive streak.

“Just wanted to check on how you’re gearing up for the elections next year.” I stared through the window. It was nicer to sit in the car with Nemesis around. Not because we shared pleasant conversation—that was rarely the case—but because she always smiled at Chicago like it was beautiful and fascinating and busy especially for her. She appreciated the small things in life.

“I’m fairly sure I am doing way beyond my wildest expectations. At least according to the polls.” Bishop clucked his tongue, and I heard him mounting his golf clubs to his cart. No wonder Rossi did business with him. The hedonist asshole didn’t have the term work in his dictionary.

“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.”

She chuckled, looking down at her legs, her cheeks flushing. “You treat me like a kid.”

“Please. If I did to kids what I want to do to you, I’d spend the rest of my life in a secluded cellar, and for damn good reason.”

She crouched down, fingering the flowerbeds for dead leaves she collected, then threw away. I stuffed my fists into the pockets of my dress pants, watching her back. Nemesis had Dimples of Venus on her lower back, and the need to sink my thumbs into them as I ate her out from behind smashed into me. I cleared my throat.

“Pack a bag and some snacks. We’re leaving.”

“Huh?” She still gardened, not even bothering to look up.

“We’re going to my cabin on Lake Michigan tomorrow for the weekend. Getting some rest is clearly not on your agenda, so I’m making it.”

She twisted her head to watch me, squinting at the sun and using one of her hands as a visor from it. “It’s no trouble. I’m not hurt, Wolfe.”

“You look like you’ve been beaten up, and people are especially good at speculating. I need to get you out of town.” It was only partly true. Having my new wife parade her banged-up face in public was less than ideal, sure. But I didn’t want any company other than her, either. Sterling was always sniffing around us, and Smithy was a general pain in the ass. In addition, Bishop wasn’t wrong. I did not, in fact, have any friends. Distancing myself from my enemies for a couple days wasn’t the worst idea I’d had. I needed a breather, and, quite frankly, Nem was the only person I could somehow tolerate right now.

“I have a lot of homework,” she said.

“Take it with you.”

“I’d hate to leave Ms. Sterling alone.”

“She’ll have security stay with her. We’re leaving alone.”

“That’s against protocol.”

“Fuck protocol.”

There was silence. She was chewing her lip, which meant she was trying to come up with another obstacle.

“You can drive a portion of the way to the cabin,” I offered, sweetening her deal. She perked just as I knew she would. Her experience with Bandini’s assholes did not deter her from learning. It was part of the reason why I couldn’t hate her. Not even if I tried. She was driven, and the best part was that she didn’t even know it about herself.

“Really?” Her eyes shimmered with excitement. Clear blue like the summer sky. “Even after what happened?”

“Especially after what happened. You aced it. How’s your forehead?”

“It looks worse than it feels.”

It looks beautiful.

Of course, uttering those words wasn’t an option. I turned around toward the balcony, retreating from the garden and my wife. When I reached the glass doors, I stopped, stealing one last glance at her again. She was crouching back down, resuming her work.

“You won’t have to worry about them anymore,” I said.

“Them?” She blinked. The list was growing by the second. First, her father, then the Bandinis.

“Every asshole who ever had the faintest idea to hurt you.”

I went into my office and locked myself there for the rest of the night, not trusting myself to go to her room for my nightly feast on her without sleeping next to her. As it was, I had a control issue.

I lacked it.

She had all of it.