Page 44 of Bad Bishop

When I called Chiara to ask her for the woman, she flat-out refused.

“You didn’t let me take her with me to Chicago, and now you want a babysitter for her?” she’d barked. “Fat chance,stronzo.”

“She’s not going anywhere without proper Irish security, and I can’t send my soldiers to Chicago because the Outfit would decapitate them before the sun’s up,” I’d explained stoically. “Punishing her through me is the height of idiocy. Surely, you’re not that fucking daft. The family eejit is Enzo.”

Enzo wasn’t really stupid, but he was both perky and agreeable, which was almost worse.

“My daughter shouldn’t be living with you for another minute, Callaghan.”

“Bitching about the situation won’t fix it,” I’d volleyed. “Your daughter looks like a corpse. She isn’t eating or sleeping. She is under my care, and we both know I don’t give two shites. Either you send someone over to put her back together or watch her slow and painful death,” I’d threatened. “Happy to send pictures.”

I’d thought this would make her put the damn maid in one of their executive cars and send her my way.

To my surprise, the witch stood her ground.

“Let her die, then. See how that works out for you. My husband might not care much, but my sons?” She tutted. “They’d kill anyone with an Irish last name in your zip code.”

My fingers flew over the screen now.

Tiernan: Cancel all your engagements for the next few months. Your new job is to feed her and make sure she sleeps.

Tierney: She’s not a Tamagotchi, Tiernan.

Tiernan: Tell me about it. She costs more than twenty bucks. So act accordingly.

My sister replied with a middle finger emoji, forever the picture of eloquence and grace.

I thrust my phone into my back pocket, then proceeded to unlock my apartment door. It was eerily quiet, the only audible sound coming from the industrial fridge in the kitchen.

Spending time with my wife was at the bottom of my to-do list, but bigger sacrifices had been made throughout history to achieve one’s objective.

Who knew? Maybe she’d try to kill me again and things would actually get interesting.

I raised my fist to knock on Lila’s bedroom door, realizing it was slightly ajar.

A rare oversight. Lila was an expert at locking herself away from me.

Taking her error as an invitation, I stepped inside, finding the room empty. The adjoined en-suite bathroom was also vacant, which meant she was probably in her walk-in closet. I stopped at the nightstand next to her bed. Her leather-bound sketchbook sat there, a pencil tucked between the pages. I made no effort to be silent or discreet. I figured if she was naked, it’d give her time to get dressed before she greeted me.

I flipped the sketchbook open, my brow furrowing. I didn’t know what I expected. Maybe finger painting or stick figures of people with lines for bodies and circles for heads. But it wasn’tthis.

This was…

Fuck me, it wasspectacular.

A pencil drawing, realistic and shaded to its finest detail, like an old black and white picture.

The portrait of a man was vivid, alive, and…familiar. Very familiar.

Hold. The. Fuck. Up.

Tate Blackthorn.

My wife drew Tate Blackthorn’s entire dick-ass face. Frommemory. Smoking a cigarette, staring into an invisible camera, his cocky half-smirk on full display.

The urge to burn down the sketchbook along with the entire street slammed into me, but I suppressed it. Of course, my wife, who was knocked up with someone else’s baby, was also obsessed with my archenemy.

Of. Fucking. Course.