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He chuckled. “What about his men?”

“Take them out to sea. They should become familiar with their surroundings.”

“And the body?”

“Leave it. His death will send a message.”

“What now?”

My thoughts drifted to the night ahead. “Now, home to the wife to celebrate our success.”

“Take her flowers.”

I laughed. Perhaps it had come to that, but I had to admit I was a content man.

There was no driver, only one SUV following me from the Turkish territory. At this point, our reputation as a powerful regime would prevent anyone from attacking us. Did I think Fassi would show his face again? Absolutely, but not for some time.

Maybe I’d be allowed to enjoy my life.

The drive was actually peaceful, the traffic lighter than usual, and I made it home in record time.

With her father’s estate currently under renovation, we’d taken up residence in my home. The thought of having teenagers in the house had initially horrified me, but I’d come to enjoy their company.

When Marco wasn’t sullen.

At least he was considering college.

When I passed the flower shop, I slowed. What the hell?

Fifteen minutes later, I pulled up at the estate. Coming home had never felt so satisfying.

After parking and climbing out, I took my time walking to the door. Right now, I felt as if I finally had that time to enjoy.

At least until the next crisis occurred.

Once inside, I gathered a whiff of garlic and onions. And something that reminded me of… a dead body? Well, shit. What was she making for dinner?

“Don’t,” Marco said as he passed, heading toward his room.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t try it. I’m just warning you.” He shook his head and burped. “We need to go out to dinner.”

Laughing, I took long strides into the kitchen, shocked at what I saw. Pots and dishes were everywhere, on every surface in the room. Steam was rising from a pot, something boiling over, yet my lovely bride was nowhere to be seen.

To try to keep the kitchen from catching on fire, I turned off both burners, glaring down at the goop inside the pot. It was red, almost like Italian spaghetti sauce burned around the edges.

When I heard a sound, I almost reached for my weapon until I realized it was a sob. A horrible racking sob coming from the other side of the island.

After placing the roses on likely the only clean spot on the counter, I moved slowly toward the sound, finding Genevieve sitting on her butt with her knees bent against her chest.

Her head in her hands.

Her hair was in a ponytail, yet strands were pulled out around her face and sweaty.

I crouched down next to her, leaning my back against the island in the same position.

“I can’t do it,” she said thirty seconds later.