Page 71 of Bad Bishop

And why didn’t she supply her with means to make her life better? A hearing aid? Apps and gadgets?

My wife had been robbed not only of her freedom and choices, which was standard for women in the underworld, but also from education, music, culture, arts, sports. Deaf people lived full, satisfying lives. They became doctors and scientists. Climbed mountains and broke glass ceilings.

I had no expectations of Vello. Fucker was the level of narcissist who barely noticed there was a world around him. But how could Lila’s con gig fly under Luca, Achilles, and Enzo’s radar? They grew up with her, for fuck’s sake.

They were natural-born killers. Their jobs were to observe, learn, plan, and execute. My distaste for them aside, they were capable men. Was Lila that excellent an actress, or were they simply that self-absorbed?

The answer didn’t matter. What mattered was they had failed her. Every single one of the Ferrantes. And the bad news was, I was hardly any better. Chiara was right. As soon as her daughter opened her mouth and I listened to her talk, the first thing that sprang to my mind was that I could fuck her now.

She was fair game.

Fuck Achilles’s duffel bags of cash.

I saw her at the doctor’s. The way her body reacted to mine. Those sweet, rosy-pink nipples were calling for me. It was the first time I wanted to put my mouth on a tit. The first time I wondered what it’d feel like to fuck a pussy.

Funnily enough, I, too, was inexperienced between the sheets. In a different, more depraved way, but nonetheless a virgin by some technical standard.

Lila was my first kiss—if you could call it that—and if I were to ever screw her, I’d need to do it the right way. I wasn’t ready for that. Maybe not even capable of it.

She drove me mad. I wanted to throttle, kiss, and fuck her, all in the same breath. Not wanting someone to be scared of me went against my own brain chemistry. Fear was my most trusted weapon. I wielded it over everyone, other than Tierney and Fintan.

But if I truly wanted Lila’s pussy—which, I was beginning to suspect was the case—I had to tone it down.

And maybe no more hookers.

Fine,definitelyno more hookers.

Sex was neither here nor there for me. I could take it or leave it, depending on my schedule, workload, and its availability. Going without wouldn’t be a first, or particularly difficult.

But this was a headache I didn’t anticipate. A complication that wasn’t a part of the arrangement.

I’d deal with that later, though.

I knocked my drink back.

I’d handle it.

I always handled it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

TIERNAN

The next morning, I found my useless brothers-in-law and their cuntbag of a father on the golf course adjoined to their olive orchard.

After dropping Lila off at the main house, I borrowed one of their vintage golf carts from the stables and made my way to them, making it a point to run over all the flowerbeds and knocking down any Mother Mary and Jesus garden gnomes I suspected were pricey.

The golf course stretched across five acres, boasting manicured lawns, grooves, valleys, and dips. The seaside cliff offered natural ravines along the coastline. The Ferrante men were on the driving range next to a bucket of balls, shooting the shit and hitting balls directly into the mouth of the ocean. I came to a screech, blocking their carts’ path, and hopped out.

Vello was the first to notice me. He straightened his posture from crouching over his walking cane, muttering something in Neapolitan. A heartfelt greeting, no doubt.

I casually plucked one of the golf clubs from the leathered stand bag midstride. A vintage piece that looked expensive as shit.

“What’s up, man?” Enzo raised his head from his ball, and I used the opportunity to swing the club and break it over the side of his arm.

“Stu puorc e merd!” He dropped to his knees with a rough cough, clutching his arm. “The fuck was that for?”

“What the—” Luca began, before I grabbed another golf club, breaking it in half over my knee and slicing his shoulder with it. It was less than a stab, but more than a poke. Enough to draw blood but not warrant stitches.