The silence is palpable on the drive from the airfield to my mansion in Miami. I’ve held Rose’s hand forcefully the entire journey as I’ve stared out of the window, feeling edgier the closer we get. I didn’t feel like this a few weeks ago when I returned after the bombshell call from Brad that brought my peaceful life in St. Lucia to an abrupt end. But now? I’m tense, and I know Rose can feel it because she keeps unsuccessfully trying to release her hand from mine. And there’s why I feel different this time.
Rose.
On my last visit, she was in St. Lucia, miles away, being guarded. It became very obvious very quickly that keeping her there, out of harm’s way, wasn’t a long-term solution. Not when we have no fucking idea who we’re dealing with, what exactly they know, and how we’re going to handle it. So she stays with me. She’s not happy about being here, and I’m not happy that I’ve been forced to bring her. So we’re equally pissed off about the situation. Rose, naturally, more than me. I can’t help but feel like life is going to be too fucking stressful for more reasons than one. My wife’s temper is brutal. Unlucky for me, I’m the only poor fucker in this world who can spike that temper.
I’m the only man who can hurt her.
I glance across the car, finding her eyes nailed to the guy in the passenger seat. Nolan. He’s Brad’s new accessory. A good kid, by all accounts. I’m yet to find out. I crane my head to see what she’s looking at when her eyes fall to his legs. A machine gun is spread across his thighs.
“It’s a precaution,” I say, shifting my hold of her hand so my fingers lace through hers.
“And what about the two cars up front and the two at the rear?” She doesn’t look at me, turning toward the window. “Are they a precaution too?”
“Don’t start, Rose,” I warn. I do not need the added aggravation of my wife’s sarcasm. She’s got progressively more uptight since we left the villa this morning. The only person she’s actually had any conversation with is Beau, and I bet my beautiful wife was slagging me off something rotten.
“Fuck you,” she breathes, trying to pull her hand from mine again. I don’t allow it, obviously. I see Nolan flick a wary glance up at the mirror, and I flash him a wry smile. It confuses him, I can tell by the slight squint of his eyes before he sharply turns his attention back to the road.
“Welcome home,” I say quietly as we pull up to the gates. I get another jar of her hand for my trouble. I’m fast concluding that the only thing that seems to pacify my wife at the moment is when my cock is inside her. It would be a satisfying thought, one to savor, if it wasn’t an impossibility. I’m going to be a busy man, and perhaps that’s a contributing factor to Rose’s mood. She’s had me all to herself for three years. I’ve had her. Each day has been spent whiling in the sun, taking walks, eating indulgently. Indulging in each other even more. Miami is going to change the dynamic of our relationship. I don’t like it, not at all, but, obviously, me ending up dead will change the dynamic a lot more. Rose knows that. She’s just finding it harder to accept.
I glance across the car to her. She’s looking at the two terraces leading off the bedrooms. There was only one terrace remaining when she left Miami three years ago. The other had been blown to smithereens. My blood runs cold, and my eyes clench shut, trying to push away the image of her dangling off the side, hanging on to the jagged concrete. Looking up into my eyes as she let go. She wanted to die. I gulp, the ramifications of my decision to return to Miami becoming starker by the minute.
The car comes to a gradual stop and Rose wastes no time opening the door, trying to escape me. I grab her upper arm, haul her back, and lean over, pulling the door closed on a bang, making one of the men on the outside jump back. “Let’s lay a few cards on the table,” I say, my fingers clawed into her flesh, stopping her fighting me.
She turns a ferocious stare my way. “You’re shit at poker,” she says through a pulsing jaw. She’s right. Always have been. I smile on the inside, thinking back to that time in Vegas when I took her as collateral. She wants to think about it too, but her mood won’t allow her.
“Maybe,” I muse. “But I’m a champion at bringing my fiery wife to heel.” I release her arm and place a palm on a breast, stroking my thumb in small circles over the sheer material of her silk blouse. I raise my eyebrows when her nipple solidifies, her hands clawing into the leather of the seat. “Are you going to argue with me on that too?” She can bring her all. I’m ready, and she knows it.
“You probably haven’t got time to argue with your wife.” Her words are broken, her back pressing into the seat, as I slide my palm down her front and cup her. The heat. I can feel it through her jeans.
Leaning in, I get my threatening face up close to her snarling one. “I’ll always have time for you, Rose.” I kiss her fury away, dragging her across the car onto my lap when she relents, whimpering. I flex up, making sure she feels me. And hears me. “You’re my priority.” That’s not technically true. Keeping myself alive is my priority. The former is useless if I’m not physically able. I kiss her again. “It starts with you, and it ends with you.” Brushing her hair away from her face, I look at her, waiting. “I’m backed into a corner, baby. I don’t need you throwing flames at me too.” I lift her and place her back on the seat next to me. “Wait for me in our room,” I order gently, letting myself out of the car, unbending my body slowly, my eyes lifting up the front of the mansion as I do. I pull in my suit jacket and slip my shades on, feeling the eyes of many men on me, some old faces, some new.
The Brit is back.
“I’m not becoming your in-house whore,” Rose yells, jumping out the other side and glaring across the car at me. “Your piece of ass to fuck when you need to let off steam after a hard day killing whoever the fuck needs killing.” She storms off up the steps, and the men wisely move from her path.
“Fuck me,” I breathe, blindly pushing the door shut. Yeah, The Brit is back. And he’s bought his impertinent woman with him. Trying to get this balance right might kill me with stress, if Rose doesn’t kill me first.
I take one step, and the men around me move too, becoming more alert, more aware, some starting to look around, scanning the walls that surround the mansion. I freeze and cast an interested look their way. “Am I missing something, or has the national news announced my resurrection?” I ask.
“We’re taking no chances.” Ringo appears at the top of the stairs and, fuck, it’s good to see his ugly mug. “Welcome home, Mr. Black.”
“Shut the fuck up.” I laugh as I round the car, this time ignoring the moves of the men around me, my arms lifting, beckoning him to me. His chest meets mine hard, and his big, murdering hands slap my back with force. “Good to see you, you ugly fuck.”
“Is it?” he grunts, pushing me away, assessing me up and down. “St. Lucia suits you.”
We start taking the stairs to the mansion side by side, and when we enter, Brad is emerging from the corridor that leads to my office. He spots Rose first, who’s halfway up the stairs. “Rose,” he sings.
“Fuck off, Brad,” she spits over her shoulder.