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The dreams should have been the first sign. After I noticed that they’d been gone for more than a week, I should have known. Thinking about it now, I almost couldn’t remember the artistic red splash on the wall or the face that owned those lifeless eyes. A new kind of nightmare haunted me. This one was a living nightmare, with perfect lips, perky tits, blonde hair, and blue eyes. Saying I was screwed wasn’t even going to cut it. Fucked better suited the context, and it wasn’t helping that I suddenly remembered Nikolai’s question.

Why didn’t I sell her off, leave her in the sea of sharks to feast on? Then, I wouldn’t have to deal with fighting off the provocative images and sounds from my mind that I’d practically guided her to plant there. Her well-being wouldn’t be my fucking business; none of her would concern me. But simply, the thought sent a violent fire that spread up my back, forcing me to straighten up on the chair.

My gaze on the desk hardened, and I directed my anger toward it with a clenched fist. “Goddammit!”

She wouldn’t fucking leave.

And I’d tried everything: late nights at work, early mornings out of the house before she got out of bed… every fucking thing. Nothing worked. Not the vain efforts I used to bury my head in piles and piles of work or anything. The taste of her, the smell of her…that fucking vanilla followed me everywhere.

I’d always considered myself to be a man of standard, somewhat. I didn’t do pot, I kept my business as clean as I could, and I never fucked the same woman twice, except some ginger broad that came on to me in college. And that was it. Until Pchelka came along.

When I presented the proposal to make her sacrifice herself in her brother’s place, I expected her to take it because that was who she was—Mother Teresa incarnate, a saint. What I didn’t expect was for her to submit completely, soul and body. The body part reeled me in like a hooked fish.

The wedding night was a mere introduction to what lay ahead of us for the rest of the week.

I knew every dip and curve of her body, every sensitive spot that turned her on with just a touch; I knew she didn’t care where we fucked but pretended to prefer the bed because she got to cuddle afterward. I memorized the echo of her loud moans against the fogged-up shower walls, knew the small sketches her face made when I pushed deep inside her, filled her up how I’d quickly learned she liked it; even now, I felt her nails digging into my skin, clutching my back, holding on with a vise-grip while our sighs mingled, and our lips met.

She was worse than coke, highly addictive and so fucking distracting.

I’d had to keep my distance to protect my sanity and to go easy on her. Knowing she was never going to say when I hurt her caused an uncomfortable knot to twist behind my ribs. Maybe that was what having a conscience felt like. And I didn’t want it. Countless times, I’d left her sore, but she stayed mute and encouraged me to keep going. One time, I practically yanked her off me and left the room without a word. That one time had been the last time I fucked my wife, and that last time was exactly one week, four days, and ten hours ago. Not that I was counting or anything.

The door opened, and Arlo pranced in with a smug grin plastered on his face. “I deserve a bonus.”

“And why was that the first thing that popped out of your mouth?”

He shrugged. “Because today’s my off day? I shouldn’t be here or working at all, and yet, here I am.”

“You don’t have off-days.”

“Then maybe I should quit this job.”

My lips curved to the side. “Stop trying to be fucking funny.”

Taking the seat across the desk, he inched closer with drawn brows, his gaze journeying from my rolled-up sleeves, past my askew tie, and finally resting on my face.

Dropping a paper on the desk, he tilted backward. “Respectfully, you look like shit. Which is it: wife troubles or honeymoon gone wrong?”

A combination of both. That “honeymoon” shouldn’t have lasted beyond a night.

“Not particularly in the mood, Arlo. What the fuck do you want?”

He pointed at the paper, forcing my eyes to see the gruesome image printed on it. Scattered brains on a hardwood floor. A dead man. I raised my head, waiting for a proper explanation.

“Do you know Santiago Montevallo?”

I shook my head. “Never heard of him.”

“And after today, you probably never will.” Arlo sat up, knitting his fingers together with a serious expression clouding over his features while his eyes burned holes in the picture. “Because that man you see right there is Santiago Montevallo.”

Slowly, I arched a brow. If something was supposed to sink in, my brain hadn’t received a memo. “And….”

Sighing, he inclined backward, massaging his temple. “Timur, Santiago Montevallo was the man on duty the night Leonara Colombo left the estate.”

Now, it made sense. I caught on before another word left Arlo’s mouth. Adjusting on my seat, I crumpled up the picture and dunked it in the trash can by the corner of a wall. “Great. Enzo knows we had his daughter; he got mad, literally blew someone’s brains out, and is coming for us. Is that it?”

“It is,” he nodded. “But we’ve got this. We won’t play the odds; we’ll play the man.”

After a moment of silence and waiting for the continuation of whatever that was, I quirked a brow.

He looked stunned. “Come on, Harvey Specter?”

I shook my head and he tried again.

“ Suits?”

“No, Arlo. I don’t even care to know what the fuck that is. Now, if you’re done goofing, I need you to take this seriously. I know we’ve got this, but you and I know that Enzo is unpredictable and can be irrational. He won’t care that his beloved daughter stuck her nose in shit that doesn’t concern her. I want eyes and ears all over the place to know the next shit he’s up to. If he strikes, we’ll have to know how to bring him down.”

With that annoying smug grin, he was off his seat and already walking toward the door. “On it.” He tipped his fingers on his forehead in a mock salute and cast a thoughtful pause over his shoulder. “And…this is completely off the fucking records, but living in here like a caveman isn’t going to help you do shit.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and I was left to myself to deal with my thoughts dancing around the place. With Enzo knowing, we had an open target on our backs, and the Italians weren’t going to relent if they had to throw a bomb. That should have been a big enough distraction to take my mind off the temptation Arlo managed to fucking stir.

Truthfully, he didn’t have to stir shit. Even before he walked through those doors, I’d been battling not to walk out—not to go home. It didn’t matter that the Italian Don could spin a surprise ambush; my mind was still clouded, reliving those long, stretched days and nights I’d spent with the woman who was now my wife. I batted to stop myself, but it was already too late. Like wildfire, the urge burned, spread violently, and licked up every piece of reason left until I was snatching my jacket off the rack and taking the car keys off the desk.