Taking measured steps to the front door, I glanced through the window. I spotted my wife standing by the stairway, her delicate hand perched on the bannister.
She wore a white dress, her blond hair tumbling down her shoulders all the way to the small of her back. A dirty angel with a golden crown for a halo.
Imaginary ants traveled up my toes, all the way to my skull.
I rounded the front entrance, trying to get a better angle of her. I saw her talking to Petar, her back to me. Petar was standing directly in front of the window I was standing behind. He spotted me. His face went from distressed to surprised in seconds. I wasn’t known for hiding behind bushes and watching people. Especially people who were inside my goddamn house.
His mouth opened, probably to tell her I was there. I shook my head. He clamped it shut.
Why was she here?
Take a wild guess, asshole.
She was here to thank me for the money, divorce, and enthusiastic dick, pack the remainder of her possessions and ride off with Paxton into the horizon in the Tesla I was dumb enough to purchase for her.
Unfortunately for Flower Girl, playing into her hands wasn’t in my plans. Not anymore. If she wanted to destroy this marriage, she was going to have to do it the long, slow, excruciating way. I wasn’t giving her the chance at a clean kill.
The memory of my visit to Colin Byrne stirred something violent in me.
“Veitch wanted to whore out his wife all by himself before he fucked off. He wanted to kidnap her and give her to me.”
I remembered his words, verbatim.
I’d never wanted to kill a person more than I had wanted to put a bullet in Paxton Veitch’s skull.
All I needed to do was walk inside the house and tell her.
It was that simple.
But I knew it’d hurt her.
Break her spirit.
Show her that the man she chose to spend the rest of her life with wanted to sell her.
It was a terrible time to grow a conscience.
I turned around, walked back to my car, and called Sam.
“Give me Paxton’s address.”
I wasn’t going to break Persephone.
But I sure as hell wasn’t going to let the real villain get the girl.
Paxton Veitch’s temporary residence was nothing more than a shack in the back room of an illegal poker joint in Southie. Judging by the exterior of the decaying two-story building, he was probably sleeping in a cot made solely of garbage, pubic hair, and STDs.
Rather than announce my arrival with a knock, I kicked the flimsy screen door down, barging in.
Three round tables full of men with oil and dirt stains on their faces looked up at me, their eyes snapping off their cards.
“Paxton Veitch,” I grumbled. No other words were necessary.
Silence rang in the room.
I knew dangling my sharp suit and expensive haircut in front of them was inviting trouble, but I welcomed it. Sighing, I took out my wallet and raised a hundred-dollar bill between my index and middle fingers, waving it around.
“I’ll ask again, where’s Paxton Veitch?”
This time, the men shifted in their seats, glancing at each other.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, we don’t even know him, why are we protecting him? He’s in the back room!” one of them piped up, banging his cards over the table. “Take the stairs up. His is the second door on the left.”
I dropped the bill to the floor, proceeding as a few men rushed to the floor, fighting for the money.
When I got to the door I was looking for, I took a few breaths to calm myself down. I’d imagined going head-to-head with the bastard longer than I’d like to admit. Before Persephone and I were on speaking terms.
The memory of her kissing him at Hunter and Sailor’s wedding still made my blood boil.
I’d walked along the hedge garden, inwardly convincing myself I wasn’t a complete moron for rejecting the Penrose girl I wanted so much. The topiary assaulted my eyesight. A tacky mixture of angels, animals, and heart shapes. The sound of panting made me slow next to a cloud-shaped shrub.
“Oh, Paxton,” a throaty, sweet voice had moaned.
My blood ran cold.
I took a step aside, pretending to read a sign explaining the design of the garden. From my position, I could see strands of white-blond hair woven in the shrubs, a delicate, snowy neck extended, and a male mouth peppering kisses all over it.
“God, you’re so fucking sweet. What’s your name again?”
“Persephone.”
“Persy-phone-ay.” His hands were everywhere as he mispronounced her name. “What does it mean?”
I’d strained my neck, developing perverse satisfaction in making myself watch her in another man’s arms after snubbing her. His head trailed down her breasts, disappearing from my line of vision. She was panting hard and fast.
Take a good look at what you did. She is in someone else’s arms now.