Is he fucking serious? I could strangle the shit out of my partner for suggesting it.
But I’m not going to argue. I’m responsible for bringing peace between the families, and if I fail, I always knew what would happen. Might as well get it over with. The question is, will he chop off my head, or just my dick?
I try not to think about it for the rest of the day as Little Al and I make our rounds, collecting payments. When I walk into the penthouse that afternoon, Eliza is on the sofa, the celebrity gossip channel playing on the flatscreen TV, her phone sandwiched between her ear and her shoulder as she picks through a bowl of mixed nuts. I notice she got a new set of nails today, and I wonder what else she got up to when she was out, who she went with.
She barely glances my way before going back to her call, giggling to her friend. I try to be glad she’s happy, even if it’s not with me.
I leave her and go into the other room, but pretty soon, it’s time for dinner and she’s still on the phone. I stick my head into the sitting room and wave my phone at her.
“I’m calling out for dinner,” I say. “What do you want?”
“Oh, I’m about to meet Bianca for dinner,” she says, covering the end of her phone to speak to me. Why she needs to go eat with her friend after talking to her on the phone for over an hour, I don’t know.
“Then can you get off the phone for a minute?” I ask. “I need to talk to you.”
She rolls her eyes and sighs. “What could we have to talk about?”
“You seem to have plenty to talk about,” I say, cutting my eyes at the phone.
She rolls her eyes again, then puts her phone back to her ear. “Hey, I gotta go. The ball and chain wants totalk.”
She scoffs, giggles at something Bianca says, then says goodbye and hangs up. She faces me with barely concealed annoyance. “What?”
“I’m meeting with your father in a few days,” I tell her. “You need to call him tonight.”
She smirks. “You want me to give you a five-star review?”
“Yes.”
We stare at each other for a long minute. Eliza could get me executed with a single word. That’s probably what she wants. Sure, she’ll be a widow at eighteen, but that can’t be too rare in this line of work. And she’ll be free to do whatever the fuck it is she’s so passionate about—if she can find another husband to finance her lifestyle, put up with her attitude, and be content getting nothing in return except a piece of arm candy when he has an event to attend.
“Fine,” she says at last. “I’ll call him later.”
Irritation flickers inside me. I’m not asking too much. I’m literally asking for the bare fucking minimum—to keep my life. I force myself to address her calmly. “Do it now, and you can go out to dinner with your friend.”
She just her chin out, her eyes flashing a challenge. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
My hands tighten into fists. This little brat has been traipsing around doing whatever the fuck she wants all day, while I’ve been working to keep the truce, which keeps our extended families alive. I ask nothing of her except to not get me killed, but apparently that’s too goddamn much. Someone’s going to have to teach her how this works, though, and I’m the one the families nominated for the job.
I step up behind the sofa, taking her hair gently in one hand and wrapping it around my palm. She starts to twist away, but I grip her hair a little tighter and tug her back against the couch. “You’ll call now,carina.”
She lets out a huff, but she thumbs her phone on and calls. “Are you going to stand there looking over my shoulder like an overprotective dad monitoring a phone call to his daughter’s boyfriend?”
“Yes,” I say, stroking her hair with my free hand. “If you don’t want me treating you like a child, don’t act like one.”
She starts to pull away again, but I squeeze my hand closed around her silky rope of hair and hold her still. Her father answers, and she puts the phone to her ear.
“Hi, Daddy,” she says, turning her head just far enough to glare up at me from the corner of her eye.
“Behave,” I mouth, giving her hair just a gentle tug, just enough to remind her of the night in the hotel. She turns forward again, but I catch her squeezing her knees together for just a second.
Does she like it when I treat her like a child? Or is it the threat that’s got her squirming and adjusting her skirt before she responds to whatever her father is saying?
“It was great, Daddy,” she assures him. “The beach was gorgeous, the weather was perfect, and the hotel was great. I got a massage every day. I’m so relaxed.”
I smile, loosening my hold on her hair and stroking her head. She goes on, describing the beach and the excursions and the meals for a few minutes. I release my hold and stroke her neck, letting my hands rest on her shoulders. While she talks, I gently knead the muscles. It’s not so hard to get her to obey. I just have to promise her what she wants. Dinners with her friends, luxuries at home, my complete disinterest in her as a wife.
She pauses while her father speaks, and I feel her tense just as she bursts out, “He’s horrible, Daddy! I hate him! Please let me come home. I can’t live with a Valenti. He’s a monster!”