Page 22

22

Andre

A fter Stella thoroughly blows my mind twice, once that may have knocked her up, she quickly leaves. I sit down behind my desk just in time to see my cell phone light up with a call.

Picking it up, I see Franco’s Pizza on it, snapping me out of my orgasmic bliss.

“What?” I answer.

“Good, you’re still alive,” he says with a heavy sigh. “Why didn’t you answer? I called you like ten times in a row!”

“I was busy. You should know since you’re supposed to be following my wife to my office building.”

“Yeah, I thought she was coming up to plunge her knife into your throat!”

Frowning, I grumble, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Your wife just held a knife to my damn dick! She stabbed my tires and stole our cell phones. I had to come back and call you from the damn restaurant!”

Well, that explains why Stella came roaring fire into my office like a sexy crazed dragon. Good thing she went from angry to jealous in the blink of an eye seeing Victoria.

God, I wish I could’ve seen her holding Franco’s dick at knife point and the look on the idiot’s face.

“How could you let her catch you? I told you to be inconspicuous!”

“We were! How were we to know she would be so paranoid to keep looking over her shoulder?”

Okay, now that’s concerning. The only reason Stella would’ve been glancing around paranoid to make sure she wasn’t being followed is because she didn’t want anyone to know where she was headed.

“Well? Where was she going when she caught onto you?”

“Some building on Fifth Avenue near Union Square.”

“What’s in the building?”

“A whole lot of shit.”

“Send me a list. Now. I want to know every business in that place as well as every resident.”

“Jesus, Dre. That’ll take us all damn day!”

“I want the list in an hour, or you’re going back to making pizzas as an associate.”

“Fuck,” he mutters before ending the call. Franco, along with Dino, are both Ferraro soldiers who spent eight years as associates before Creed let them take the oath and become a part of the family. In a few years, they’ll hope to rise to a capo if they can stay alive and off Creed’s shitlist. Or mine.

They do what they’re told, no questions asked.

That’s why, fifty-nine minutes later, I get an email with a long list of where Stella may have been visiting.

I start with the most likely place she’d be going — a business. At least I hope she was headed to a business and not someone’s apartment.

When I have the list narrowed to three possibilities, I grab my suit jacket and head out to check each of them personally.

* * *

Sneaking into the busy building was as easy as waiting about two minutes for someone to walk out. Inside, I try the employment law firm first, since I know an associate there. Nobody in the office has ever seen or heard of my wife before, so I head to the next office.

The sign next to the door says, “The Wellness Center” and underneath it is the name “Annibelle Stokes, Licensed Mental Health Counselor.”

I rap my knuckles against the door, wait a few seconds, then do it again when there’s no response. Finally, the door swings open, revealing a small woman wearing a black cardigan with giant black-framed glasses perched on her nose. Without the letters beside her name, I would’ve known as soon as I saw her that she’s obviously a psychologist, because she looks like a damn caricature of one.

Her lips are pinched in obvious annoyance when she looks me up and down. “I’m currently with a client. I can give you my card if you’d like to call to schedule an appointment.”

“This won’t take but a moment of your time,” I assure her. “Are you Stella Rovina Ferraro’s therapist?”

Her tight lips part in obvious recognition of the name.

Damn. Why is Stella in therapy? Why does she feel the need to sneak around to attend?

Swallowing, the woman says, “I can’t reveal who my clients may or may not be.”

“Right. So, she is your patient.”

“I can’t confirm or deny…”

Holding up one hand to stop her memorized speech, I remove the gun from where it’s tucked in my pants waistband with the other. “We’re going back into your office, and you’re going to show me all your notes from sessions with Stella.”

Her wide eyes behind the glasses drop to the gun before lifting to my face again. Her narrow shoulders square up. “I’ll never show you the records, and if I’m dead, you won’t be able to access them, since they’re kept on a private server no hacker could access. They will be automatically deleted with one wrong password before being opened by anyone other than myself.”

“Bullshit. You’re not going to die to protect your patient’s notes.”

“Try me,” she grits out, her jaw clenched with determination. We stare at each other silently for several long seconds before she starts to shut the door in my face, calling my bluff.

I stick my foot out to stop her.

“Thank you,” I tell her. “If you’d caved, I would’ve killed you.”

Now she blinks at me with a furrowed brow. “What?”

“I can’t have my wife going to some shrink who would betray her at the sight of a gun.”

“You…that’s…” she stammers and shakes her head. “You were testing me?”

“Yes. And you passed. Congrats. Your prize is not dying today.”

“I can’t say I approve of your…unusual methods. However, it appears you have your wife’s best interests at heart. Whoever she may be.”

“Right,” I agree with a smirk. “Don’t tell Stella we talked.”

“I don’t keep secrets from any of my patients.”

Putting away my gun, I retrieve my wallet from inside my suit pocket, pull out a few hundred-dollar bills and toss them at the shrewd woman. “You’re my therapist now, so you can’t discuss my presence with any other patients. Thanks for a productive first session.” I turn to walk toward the elevator.

“I’m not taking your money. You are not my patient!” she calls after me, as if she’s forgotten about the gun I pulled on her moments ago.

“Same time next week?” I say as the elevator door opens. I step inside and press the button for the first floor, finding the therapist staring open-mouthed at me. “I’m showing up either way, so you may as well get paid for your time.”

The elevator doors begin to close when she shouts, “I could always recommend divorce!”

My finger stabs the button on the panel to make them open again. “You wouldn’t fucking dare,” I grit out.

“I counsel for whatever I feel is best for my patients. I loathe controlling husbands.”

I glare at her while holding the doors open with one palm. “Make sure you reschedule the appointment Stella missed today as soon as possible. And don’t charge her for the cancellation. It was my fault she didn’t show.”

When she goes back inside, shutting the door to her office, I finally let the elevator doors close.

My wife’s in fucking therapy.

I want to know why, would give anything to know the details.

But only if they come from her mouth.