“He assaulted my wife.”
“Aida Gallo?” Henry says with a small sneer. “No offense, but I wouldn’t take her word for it.”
“That’s extremely offensive,” I say, holding his stare. “Not to mention, I saw it with my own eyes.”
“You had him escorted out by security,” Henry says tersely. “I expect better treatment for one of your biggest donors.”
I give a small snort.
“Please. I’ve got plenty of money. I’m not going to prostitute my wife for fifty-K. And in any case, my relationship is with you, not with Oliver. I doubt the fact that he’s a handsy drunk is a surprise to you. So let’s cut to the chase of what’s really bothering you.”
“Fine,” Henry snaps. His face reddens, making his bald head look shinier than ever. “I heard you’re selling the Transit Authority property to Marty Rico. I want it.”
Jesus Christ. I’m not even Alderman yet, the property isn’t for sale, and half the men in Chicago are trying to close their grubby fists around it.
“I’ve got several interested parties,” I say, tapping my fingers lightly on the top of his desk. “I’ll be entertaining all bids.”
“But you’ll give it to me,” Castle says threateningly.
He can threaten all he wants. I’m not giving anything away for free.
“If the price is right,” I tell him.
“You don’t want to make an enemy of me.” Henry is back behind his desk now, standing because he wants to loom over me. Unfortunately for him, that doesn’t work when you’re not the tallest man in the room.
“I’m sure you’ll come up with something good,” I remark. “After all, it says ‘capital’ on the door.”
His face is turning darker and darker in color. He looks like he’s about to burst a blood vessel.
“I’ll be contacting your father about this,” he hisses.
“Don’t bother,” I tell him. “Unlike your son, I speak for myself.”
17
Aida
Callum gets up early, quietly slipping into the bathroom and closing the door so he doesn’t wake me up with the noise of the shower.
When I finally come all the way awake, he’s long gone, probably headed off to some meeting. I can still smell his shampoo and aftershave in the air. A scent that’s becoming increasingly erotic to me.
I’m basking in the satisfaction of the night before.
I never would have believed that Callum Griffin had the capacity to be so passionate or sensual. Frankly, it’s the best sex I’ve ever had, with the person I like the least. What a conundrum. Because it almost makes me feel friendly toward him, and I wasn’t planning on that at all.
My head is spinning. What the hell is going on? Is this Stockholm Syndrome because I’ve been enmeshed with the Griffins too long?
Luckily, I’m going home today, so I can regain a little sanity.
I wish it were for a happier reason. It’s the anniversary of my mother’s death—a day I always spend with my father and brothers.
I’m looking forward to it. I haven’t been back since I got married. I wonder if it will feel different now that I technically live somewhere else.
The Griffins’ mansion sure as shit doesn’t feel like home. There’s a couple of things I like about it—mostly the theater room and the pool. Everything else is always annoyingly tidy, like someone’s coming to shoot a magazine spread any minute. Most of the couches look like you’re not supposed to actually sit on them, barricaded with stiff pillows, and devoid of comfortable accessories like books or blankets.
Plus, their house staff is enormous. Cleaning ladies, cooks, assistants, drivers, security guards . . . it’s hard to feel comfortable when you know somebody could come creeping into the room at any moment, always retreating politely if they see the space is occupied, but still reminding you that you’re not alone and that you’re in some awkward class above them.
I try to talk to “the help”—especially Marta, since I see her most often. She has a seven-year-old daughter, and she listens to reggaeton and is the Michelangelo of makeup. She seems cool, like we could maybe be friends. Except that she’s supposed to wait on me hand and foot, like I’m a Griffin.