Page 36 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

My jaw aches from how hard I’ve got it clenched. The jealousy is raging like an inferno inside me.

“I’ve never met a gentleman like you, Mr. Ruffo,” she adds.

That’s it! I rise so abruptly that my chair nearly topples over. “Apologies for cutting this short. We have a previous engagement we must attend tonight.”

“Of course.” Ruffo stands and offers me his hand. “Looking forward to our next meeting. Hopefully, we’ll get a chance to discuss that additional opportunity for collaboration you mentioned. I’m eager to learn how my transportation network could strengthen the ties between our Families.”

“I’m confident that we will.” He can shove his trucking business up his ass, for all I care right now.

I wrap my arm around Tara’s waist and practically drag her out of the place.

A few throaty grunts and a menacing-looking club, and I’d pass for a Neanderthal in a heartbeat.

“You were exceptionally rude,” Tara chirps as we head across the nearly empty parking lot, occupied only by two essentially identical vehicles. Mine and Ruffo’s, I suppose. “And there I was, doing my absolute best to appear as dutiful and docile as I could muster,” she continues.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Obviously, nothing satisfies you, DeVille. I followed every instruction you set out. Down to the tiniest detail. I’m wearing a fashionable ankle-length dress.

Minimal makeup. I didn’t utter a word until I was spoken to directly.

And when I did, not a single cuss left my lips.

Speaking of which… I maintained the mandatory ever-present smile. ”

“I’m certain your facial muscles will cramp from all that fake grinning.” I open the back door of the BMW for her, allowing her to slide in behind the driver. “You looked ridiculous, by the way.”

“I’m glad.” She smiles at me then. It’s not a fake one this time. This smile is genuine and makes clear what she left unsaid. Go fuck yourself, DeVille .

I slam the door shut once she’s in and head to the other side of the vehicle with my blood boiling in my veins. Somehow, my darling wife has found the blueprints to everything that makes me tick. She knows just which nerve of mine to poke to make me lose my fucking shit. In more ways than one.

What the hell possessed me to kiss her earlier?

Or did she kiss me? I don’t fucking remember.

There was no one around for whom we had to perform.

No one we needed to fool with our kissing.

Still, my brain must have short-circuited.

The only thing I recall is the incessant hunger.

For her. I wanted to devour her. Consume her. I wanted to indulge. Indulge. Indulge.

The fuck?

Settling into my seat, I immediately reach inside the door pocket to fetch the bottle of ibuprofen I stashed there yesterday.

This entire week I’ve felt like crap, and this morning, a gripping tightness and soreness settled in my chest. Maybe it’s these pills that are causing my behavior?

I must have taken too many in the last twenty-four hours. Yeah, that’s got to be it.

I grab a bottle of water out of the cup holder and pop two more pills.

“You’re doing drugs now?” Tara grumbles next to me.

“Yes. A man needs to be completely stoned to spend time in your charming presence.”

Tara’s eyes flare in surprise, and maybe a little hurt, before she quickly looks away, focusing on something beyond the window.

Although she’s trying to hide her reaction, I don’t miss the slight quiver of her lower lip.

Shit. Each time I allow myself to feel this insane attraction to my wife, my self-preservation instinct kicks in, and I become the worst kind of asshole.

The kind that needs to spew crap from my mouth to deflect and get myself back in line.

I squeeze my temples, feeling like the absolute dick that I am. “It’s only over-the-counter painkillers, for Christ’s sake. I just—”

“I don’t really care,” she huffs.

“Tara—”

“Can we please just drive the rest of the way in silence?” She sighs. “Please.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

I pull out my phone to check how long it will take us to get home.

Nearly an hour, according to the GPS. With Ajello controlling New York City, this golf resort and country club for the elite has frequently been chosen as a venue for meetings.

Since it lies outside the borders of our territory, it’s as close as a member of another Family could get without our don’s express permission.

But its remote location is also the reason why Adriano Ruffo must have been able to purchase the establishment in the first place without incurring Ajello’s wrath.

Grabbing my laptop off the side console, I set it on my lap to start going through emails that arrived in the last few hours.

There are more than a dozen that need my immediate attention.

I answer the one from Ajello first, responding with a report on next month’s drug shipments, then move on to reviewing the concept sketches submitted by our architectural firm.

Sometimes this damn job feels like I’m a Fortune 500 CEO instead of the underboss of a New York crime family.

I work for almost half an hour, making notes on changes I’d like to see.

The pills have finally kicked in, lessening the ache in my chest and the throbbing at my temples.

However, even feeling marginally better, I’m still having a hard time concentrating on what I’m doing.

And that’s all because of Tara. My wife, who’s been silently moping on the seat beside me.

For the umpteenth time, my eyes dart toward her. “Why didn’t you eat anything?” I close the laptop and slide the device back onto the console. “That steak was actually decent.”

“Can’t keep smiling while I eat. And you were adamant about that requirement for social functions in our agreement.”

“Jesus. I’ll fix you dinner when we get home. Did you enjoy the lasagna?”

“Haven’t touched it. Greta was kind enough to make something else for me.”

“What? Why?”

“I already told you, DeVille. I won’t eat anything you prepare, on principle.”

My nostrils flare. I don’t understand why this pisses me off so much.

What do I care if she’d rather wolf down takeout or processed crap?

But it does. It irritates me a great deal.

Instead of getting some much-needed shut-eye after my early meeting this morning, I spent over an hour making homemade lasagna for her. And I wanted her to like it, damn it.

“Do you intend to starve, then? Because from what I gather, you don’t know how to cook.”

“I cook. I just won’t do it in a kitchen where the feng shui is all wrong.

Your stove is close to the northwest corner.

Do you have any idea how unlucky that is?

I refuse to touch it.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Greta said she doesn’t mind making my meals.

But if she’s unavailable, there’s always takeout. ”

Yeah? We’ll see about that.

We’ve just made a turn onto a wider road when the car jerks violently to the side, and the tires screech as Riggo slams on the brakes.

The sharp movements send Tara careening straight toward me.

I catch her in time to prevent her from smashing her head into the window or being tossed toward the privacy partition between us and the front seat.

Sliding the screen down, Riggo glances at me over his shoulder. “Apologies, Mr. DeVille,” he says. “That vehicle in front of us fishtailed and then made a sudden stop. They might have had a tire blowout. Should I see if they need help?”

I peer ahead, checking out the road conditions through the windshield.

A guy in jeans and a black hoodie is crouched down next to the driver-side tire of his full-size black pickup.

This might be an infrequently used side road, at least at this time of year, but the asphalt is new.

No potholes or anything else that might cause sudden damage to a heavy-duty tire like the ones on this guy’s rig.

Especially to the extent that an abrupt stop would be necessary.

He didn’t even bother pulling over to the shoulder.

The man rises and kicks the tire with his boot, then turns toward us. With a casual shrug, he beckons Riggo to come over, as if he does need help after all. I keep my attention on the nimrod as I reach into my jacket and pull out my gun.

“Really?” Tara grumbles next to my ear. I didn’t realize that I was still holding her tightly pressed to my side. “Are you seriously going to get out, guns blazing, because some poor guy got a flat?”

“Riggo. When I tell you to, hit the gas.” I turn to face my stubborn wife, bumping my nose with hers in the process. “Get down on the floor.”

“Why?”

“Because the doors can block more bullets than the windows. Down. Now!”

“Bullets?” She blinks at me twice in confusion, then quickly untangles her legs from mine and crouches on the floor between the seats. “Fucking great.”

Considering she experienced a panic attack during our wedding vows, I’m expecting her to lose her shit any second.

In fact, I kinda expected she’d be halfway there by now, right after bullets were mentioned.

But instead of drowning in hysterics, my wife simply adjusts her skirt and flashes me an angry scowl. Unbelievable.

I cock my gun. “Floor it, Riggo.”

The car launches forward.

The poor guy with a flat reaches behind his back, pulling out a weapon. At the same time, the passenger door as well as two back doors fly open, and three other guys leap out of the pickup just as our car rushes past them.

Rhythmic pings pepper the back of the car as the shooters spray us with gunfire. One of the rounds ricochets off the rear windshield, leaving an indent in the bulletproof glass. The bastards are using armor-piercing shit. I lower my window and return fire.