A fresh tsunami of rage rolled through me when I pictured the piece of shit in front of me pointing a gun at her.
She wasn’t my wife yet, but she was mine.
No onethreatened what was mine.
“So she’s your wife.” Brax coughed, his bravado dented but intact. “I understand why you’re upset. She’s beautiful, though she would’ve been much more beautiful with blood painting that pretty skin of hers.”
His grin was made of mockery and crimson, too stupid to realize his mistake.
Like I said, a brain the size of a walnut.
I put on my brass knuckles, walked over, and yanked his pathetic head back. “I’m not the one who talks too much.”
A second later, a howl of agony ripped through the air.
It did nothing to ease the wrath inside me, and I didn’t stop until the howls stopped altogether.
I left my men to clean up the mess in the Holding Cell.
I’d come close to killing Brax, but the bastard lived, barely. Tomorrow, he and his accomplices would turn themselves in to the police. It was a much more appealing alternative than staying with my team.
The apartment smelled like soup and roasted chicken when I returned home. Greta had been fussing over Vivian since the robbery, which in her world meant plying Vivian with enough food to feed all of midtown Manhattan during lunch hour.
I barely noticed the stinging hot water as I showered off the blood and sweat.
Vivian insisted she was fine, but few people recovered from having a gun pressed to their head that quickly. According to Greta, she was currently taking a nap, and she never napped this late in the day. Or ever, now that I thought about it.
I turned off the water, my thoughts as clouded as the steamed-up mirror.
I’d done my part. I’d punished the perpetrators, personally attended to Brax, and checked on Luca during my ride home from security HQ. He’d bounced back as quickly as I’d expected; the man sailed through life like a Teflon ship.
But he wasn’t the one who’d had a gun in his face.
Dammit.
With a low growl of annoyance, I toweled off, changed into fresh clothes, and headed into the kitchen, where I convinced Greta to part with a bowl of her precious soup.
“You’ll spoil dinner,” she warned.
“It’s not for me.”
A frown pinched her lips before realization dawned, and her disapproval relaxed into a downright delighted smile.
“Ah. In that case, take as much soup as you need! Here.” She shoved a plate of sourdough bread and butter at me. “Take this too.”
“What happened to spoiling dinner?” I grumbled, but I took the damn bread.
I made it to Vivian’s door when I second-guessed my decision. Should I wake her up from her nap? Greta said she’d worked from home today and hadn’t eaten lunch, but maybe she needed the rest. Or she could’ve already woken up and was counting her diamonds or whatever the hell jewelry heiresses did in their free time.
Should I knock or leave and come back?
I didn’t get a chance to decide before Vivian decided for me.
The door swung open, revealing sleepy dark eyes that widened in panic when she saw me.
She screamed, causing me to startle and nearly drop the soup.
“Fuck!” I caught myself in the nick of time, but a few drops of hot liquid splashed over the side of the bowl and onto my arm.
“Dante. God.” Vivian pressed a palm over her heaving chest. “You scared me.”
“I was just about to knock,” I half lied.
Her attention drifted to the food in my hands. She looked adorably sleep-rumpled with her tousled hair and a pillow crease on her cheek. Even with no makeup, her skin was flawless, and the faintest scent of apples turned the edges of my mind hazy.
“You brought me food?” Her face softened in a way that worsened the haze.
“No. Yes,” I said, unable to decide whether to admit to checking up on her. I could tell her it was Greta’s idea. Bringing her chicken soup of my own accord seemed dangerously intimate, like something a real fiancé would do.
Vivian gave me a strange look.
Christ, Russo, get it together.
An hour ago, I was beating the hell out of a six-foot-two criminal. Now, I was incoherent over fucking soup and bread.
“Greta said you didn’t eat lunch. Figured you might be hungry.” I went for the vaguest answer possible.
“Thank you. That’s so thoughtful,” Vivian said, still with that soft expression doing strange things to my mind.
Her fingers brushed mine when she took the bowl and plate. A tiny current of electricity sizzled over my skin. My body tightened with the effort of containing a physical reaction—a surprised jolt, a more deliberate brush of our hands.
Vivian paused like she felt it too before hurriedly continuing, “It’s perfect timing, because I was going to grab a snack. My call with the Legacy Ball committee ran over, and I forgot to eat lunch. ”
She’d told me earlier she was hostessing this year’s ball. It was a big deal, and I couldn’t stop a glimmer of pride from sparking in my chest.
“That’s going well then.”
“As well as anything with a three-hundred-page handbook can go,” she joked.
Silence fell.
I should leave now that I’d given her her food and confirmed she was functioning just fine, but a strange tug at my chest prevented me from leaving.
I blamed the cursed haze in my mind for what I said next. “If you want company, I was planning to grab a snack too. Not hungry enough for a full dinner.”