Page 31 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

“No, no one has been able to reach Mendoza for months. After his compound was blown up, he went to ground.” I throw my jacket over the back of the couch and sink into the cushions. “Hernandez isn’t answering either.”

“How much product are we short?” Ajello asks. I can practically see him scowling into the phone.

“Our guys are still checking all the crates and measuring everything out. But we’re missing a quarter of a ton, at least.” Aggressive morning sunlight punches through my living room’s unshuttered window, hitting me straight on.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to escape the brightness and also lessen the piercing pressure at my temples.

Slumping deeper into the couch, I throw my forearm over my face.

“I left Pietro at the warehouse. He’ll call me back as soon as he has the final tally. ”

“You left your bride alone on your wedding night so you could oversee our men unloading a truck? Were they not capable of doing it on their own?”

“This delivery was delayed. And now, the number of crates doesn’t match what we were expecting.

The buyers were already breathing down my neck, have been for days.

They’ll be even more unhappy with this latest turn of events.

Of course I had to go and check out the shipment myself.

I need to know what the fuck is happening. It’s in my job description, boss.”

“Your role requires you to be at the top of your game, not play mother hen and babysit shit that you have competent people to handle. Did you even sleep?”

“No. I just got in.” I glance at my wristwatch. It’s a little after seven-thirty. “I’ll wait an hour or so, then call Spada. He might have an extra quantity of coke he’d be willing to off-load. Enough that it might pacify our buyers until the next shipment arrives.”

“I’ll reach out to Massimo. You go to sleep. That’s an order, Arturo.” The line goes dead without preamble.

Fucking great. I toss the phone on the coffee table and sigh, but a sudden coughing fit comes over me.

I lean forward, trying to clear my airway.

It feels like several minutes pass before I can draw a deep breath.

My chest aches from the pressure. Goddamned chain-smoking Pietro and his stupid cigarettes.

Next time he lights up around me, I’ll shove his smokes down his throat.

Once I manage to drag myself into the kitchen, I take a bottle of water from the fridge, then climb the stairs to the second floor.

Off the landing to the right is a hallway that leads to Sienna’s and Asya’s old bedrooms, as well as a couple of guest rooms that face the backyard.

Turning left, I head toward two sets of doors.

After I saved up enough money, I purchased this house for my sisters and me.

I wanted a fresh start for us and believed a new home could give us that.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe we should have stayed in our old house, where memories of our parents filled every room.

But I couldn’t do it any longer. Couldn’t handle being between those walls anymore.

Because amid the happy memories of our family, there was another.

One that got louder and louder with every passing year, drowning out all the rest. The memory of me in that house, telling my five-year-old sisters that their mom and dad were never coming home.

It was the hardest fucking thing I’ve had to do in my life.

Stopping before the first set of oak double doors, I stare at their white surface as if they’ll tell me their secrets, what’s hidden behind their solid bulk.

But I already know what room lies beyond them.

And who it belongs to. The mere possibility seemed like a far-off future when I purchased this place.

The realtor went on and on about how this property had two sizable primary bedrooms. The largest on the market in this neighborhood, he said.

As if I gave a fuck about that at that moment.

The most important factor for me was that it had a big yard for my sisters to play in, and that the house was in the suburbs, away from the hustle and bustle of the city.

Once I bought it, I occupied the room at the end, while the one behind these doors remained empty.

Designed as a secondary suite for the lady of the house, the space sat bare and barren, unable to fulfill its true purpose for years.

I figured it would stay that way, until, that is, business needs won out and I got tapped as an ideal candidate for an arranged marriage.

Seems that time is here.

But my wife, who is asleep behind these doors, is nothing at all like the kind of woman I figured I’d have to wed.

The turn of the knob doesn’t create the slightest sound, so I open the door and step inside.

My footsteps are muffled by the thick carpet that covers the sitting nook.

Just weeks ago, this room was completely devoid of furniture and other accessories.

It was a bleak, unfinished space. I decided to have it renovated and outfitted after returning home from one of my visits with the Popovs.

People love to gossip. Idle words travel faster than a New York rat up a drainpipe, and the information that Arturo DeVille’s wife is sleeping in his sister’s room would have spread through the Cosa Nostra grapevine like a firestorm. And where would that have left us? Deep in the fucking shit.

We never tried to pass this off as an arranged marriage, where a scenario like that could have been explained.

But even if we did, once the deal was made, it would be expected of us to present as another happy couple.

Never air our dirty laundry for everyone to see.

That’s the way of the Cosa Nostra. And as Ajello has so beautifully put it, as his underboss, it’s my job to set an example in our social circle.

Promote those family values he spoke of.

That was my only motivation for getting this second primary ready for Tara. The fact that I made that decision after the first time we kissed is nothing but a pure coincidence.

That kiss meant nothing. Just a means to an end. Like all the others.

Silently stopping next to the partition separating the two parts of the room, I lean my shoulder on the wooden frame. A beam of light streams through the narrow gap between the drapes covering the window, illuminating the delicate female form curled up in the tangled sheets.

Her tiny sleeping shorts don’t hide her long, beautiful legs.

I let my gaze travel upward to where her tee has ridden up, baring her midriff.

A glint shines off the piercing in her belly button, casting sparkling sunbursts in the dim space.

I can’t take my eyes off it. And not because of my usual belief that navel piercings are unbecoming of a refined lady.

More than once I’ve woken up with a hard dick after dreaming of licking that bedazzling jewel.

Finally breaking out of the hypnotic state induced by that shining temptation, I continue my fervent perusal of my sleeping wife.

My hungry gaze eats up the swaths of her smooth skin, the swell of her breasts beneath her T-shirt, and the elegance of her neck until they land on her slightly parted lips.

It’s the only part of her face visible to me.

The rest is hidden by the blanket of her shiny, dark locks lying across her eyes and nose.

The pounding in my temples ratchets up, and I nearly wince from the crushing pressure.

The inside of my throat feels so raw, as if it’s been scratched to shreds.

I unscrew the bottle cap and gulp the water, cringing with every painful swallow.

It doesn’t dampen my enjoyment of watching my little kitten sleep.

I have no doubts that she’ll give me hell the instant she wakes up, so I take the time to appreciate her like this.

In precious peace. Her present tranquil state is the grossest misrepresentation of her true hazardous nature.

Somehow, though, I admire the wild side of her that urges her to defy me at every turn. It leaves me so fucking randy.

Soundlessly, I make my way to her bed and pull up a corner of the blanket, freeing it from the tangles around her feet.

Tara constantly grumbles about being cold, so much so that half my wardrobe is missing.

My suit jackets better be among the stuff she brought with her, or this kitten might find herself in another bout of trouble.

With the blanket tucked under Tara’s chin, I head for the set of sliding doors across from the windows. Another meaningless feature in this home. But I can’t wait to see my wife’s reaction when she discovers it.

The connecting doors between our rooms.

“Finally.” I sweep the hair off my face and take in my work.

All four hundred and seventeen of my paperbacks are arranged on the shelves in the sitting area of my room.

It took a while to organize them by subgenre.

The only thing left for me to do is unbox my special editions.

Those I’ll be setting up on my cherished bookcase that I brought from home.

But before that, I need to deal with my clothes.

Last night, I only had enough energy to dig out my pajamas and a change of clothes for today. Everything else is still in the suitcases and boxes lined up near the bed. After slicing through the packing tape of the wardrobe box labeled Dresses, I flip open the flaps and start pulling out my stash.