Page 16 of Hate to Love You
I lock eyes with Pasha.
“And you have work to get to,” I say, raising a brow. “You know, for that big boy role you wanted?”
“Well, yeah,” he says defensively. “But, I thought since I’m here I’d just wait for you and—”
“You thought wrong,” I say flatly. “I’m not going straight to the office.”
“Oh,” Pasha says, confused. “Where are—”
“My plans are not your concern,” I snap, cutting him off. “I need a briefing about what happened yesterday and I’m not going to be waiting around for them to mosey into the office whenever they feel like it.”
I slap Pasha on his good shoulder.
“That’s your job, Bud. You get to round them up.”
He sighs and nods in silence. Turning on my heel I head down the hall toward my bedroom.
“I don’t want to see either of you assholes here when I get out of the shower,” I shout, pressing open the door to my bedroom. “Or any mess.”
My bathroom is perfection.
And it should be for what I paid for the bitch.
It’s dark, like me. Gray slate tiles line the floor, wired with heat to keep my feet warm, even in the cold New York winters. The twelve-foot walls of solid imported black Italian marble surround the entire room and there’s a large copper freestanding tub along the floor to ceiling windows that face central park.
I snap at Alexa to start the shower before stripping off, taking a second to rub my hands over my chest in the mirror, noticing I still have that bruise along my ribs. Me and the boys got into a scuffle a few weeks ago at The Studio when a heated game of cards with the Italians turned into an all-out brawl. I smirk to myself and shake my head, stepping under the hot water.
Those drunken dickheads do too much coke.
Inhaling deeply, I press my hand against the wall and close my eyes.
However, the moment I do, images of her immediately come flooding back to me.
The Brunette.
As if she is standing right in front of me, I can see the curve of her face, the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, and the way her lip curls when she smirks. She was stunningly beautiful.
That’s all I knew about her. Not because that information wasn’t available to me, as I have the best information and intelligence team on the East Coast.
No, it was because I wouldn’t allow myself to know anything about her…because she was married.
Not much is unattainable for men in my position, and realistically most of my circle would never let a little thing like a pesky husband get in the way of their pussy conquest.
But that was the problem.
Affairs might be common in mafia families, but unmanaged they can be dangerous. And deadly.
I know from experience.
My father had been a loyal husband to my mother for nearly half my life, until he wasn’t. When he met his mistress, he changed. Hell, everything changed. That wicked bitch of his caused a lot of drama with my mother, which resulted in her declining health…and eventual death. And while my father did express remorse for his part, a part of me still resents him for it too.
When he finally came to his senses and cut his whore loose, he realized what a fool he’d been…when she ordered a hit on our family. We survived, and we handled it. Permanently. Just like we always do.
And we handled ol’ dad too, when the time came.
I spit at the drain, the thought of my father making my blood boil within my veins.
Hope the worms are eating the fucking prick.