Page 46 of Bratva Hunter

Rosa puts on her panties and pants as I gawk at the photos of pregnancy stages on the wall. I slip my hand behind her back. “Thank you.”

A half-smile lifts on the corner of her mouth before she flicks her head in a silent acknowledgment. She’s still angry.

The drive to the airport is silent. I’m so excited and scared. Rosa’s in a trance, offering an occasional smile as she types away on the new cell phone I gave her, and I just can’t bring myself to risk pissing her off by breaking the silence.

Six hours later, the plane touches down at the Dallas/Fort Worth airport. Rosa slept most of the journey. We disembark the first-class section of the plane as I hike the carryon onto my shoulder. Rosa objects to my hand touching her, so I flex my hand to control the itch to spank her. Fingers rented us an SUV from acompany, so we’ll grab our luggage, acquire the rental, and head to her grandparents’ home.

“Thank you for bringing me back here.”

I’m floored by her comment. “Of course. I’ll do anything to make you happy.”

She snorts. “Let me go.”

“Anything but that. You’re mine. Eventually you’ll forgive me, and we’ll have a great life together with lots of kids.”

Her grandparents own a small estate on the north edge of Dallas. The brick drive reminds me of the brick walkways in New Orleans. It’s nowhere as extravagant as my father’s, but it has an Olympic-size pool, tennis courts, and a massive building to the side. “What’s that?”

“A garage. My grandfather likes cars.”

“Who doesn’t?” I mutter to myself. The front door opens, and two older, well-dressed people stand with beaming smiles as another woman runs for the SUV. That must be her mother. She’s dressed in loose-fitting dark clothes with wisps of hair easing out of the hair bun. She’s not the well-manicured, perfectly dressed woman I expected to see. “Go. I’ll get the stuff.”

Rosa bolts out the door and runs into her mother’s embrace. Her grandparents hasten their pace to greet her with a giant family hug. I grab our stuff out of the back and stand like a bellman waiting for the embrace to end.

Her grandfather raises his head, dimming his smile as he extends his hand. “I’m Jackson White.”

“Roric Bravikov.”

He nods. “My wife Rosalita and our daughter, Raquel.”

“Hello. It’s nice to meet you. Rosa has missed you.”

Rosa’s head snaps to me. “Don’t speak for me.”

Gasps echo around us as her grandfather snickers. “That one’s got a temper. You and I will have to talk about how to smooth those rough edges.”

“I enjoy those rough edges.”

The corners of Jackson’s mouth raise higher. “That’s convenient.” He grabs Rosa and places her under his arm. “That’s not the kind of attitude you show in public. You know better.”

“But…”

“But nothing. He’s your husband. I expect you to respect him.” Chuckling, he adds. “In public at least.”

Shaking my head, Rosa’s mother tucks her head and murmurs. “Thank you for bringing her to me.”

“You’re welcome.” I bend down to whisper. “Any sign of the cartel?”

She doesn’t answer, but her father responds.

“No. Marco is in charge now, and he’s steadier in his behavior. He might even appreciate Arturo’s demise.” I cringe as he puts his hand on my shoulder. “You protected Rosa. No one will hold anything against you.”

I murmur. “She does.”

“She’s stubborn. This marriage is the best for her. She’s pregnant and babies need a father.”

Babies. Ah, my wife must have texted her family about the babies. At least she’s sharing it with someone. Raquel moves along with Rosa down the path. How did the dowdy wall flower make my blooming wife?

The interior of the house reminds me of when my mother decorated my father’s estate. Warm colors, photos on the wall, and soft rugs cover the expansive Saltillo tile. Jackson leads our entourage upstairs, making a left at the landing. “This is the South wing. It will be yours whenever you visit.”

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