Page 104 of Savage King

She isn't done. "Three, even if by some miracle I wasn't caughtred-handed," again, she makes quotation marks around the wordred-handed,and I'm sure she intended a little pun here. "I would instantly break during an interview."

"Good to know." I wink at her.

She slaps my arm and amends, "Well, I might be getting better at that…"

I let it go because I do see her points.

While Scarlet searches on my laptop, I make myself comfortable on the couch and browse through my phone. There are a thousand things I should be doing right now. My email is filled with unread notifications, so is my text app, but I'm busy finding out everything there is to know about pregnancy and pregnant women.

Not even an hour later, the new computer with not two but five monitors arrives, and Scarlet squeals in delight. "This will make research so much faster."

The technicians set up the computer while Scarlet and I get something to eat in the kitchen, where I make sure to set up a healthy lunch for her. I bypass the wine we would usually have, as well as the shrimp cocktail Fredo created earlier knowing it was one of Scarlet's favorites. No Brie or Camembert, either. Shit, is there anything she can eat? Surreptitiously, I pull out my phone. Ah, there is a salad with eggs. Now I just need to find some bread…I'll have to make a note for Fredo to provide more of certain foods; what's in here now is unacceptable.

"I'm starving," Scarlet complains from where she sits by the counter. I grin. Is there anything better in the world than feeding my—maybe—pregnant wife? I don't think so.

She looks at me, surprised when I deposit the salads and bread on the table, and a hint of insecurity rushes over her face.

"What's wrong?" I ask, reminding myself to ask Fredo what he puts into the salad dressing.

"Uhm," she blushes slightly, then moves her hand over her still flat stomach, "do you think I'm getting fat?"

Oh, passerotta, I can't wait to see you round with my baby. "No, why?"

"We don't usually eat salad for lunch," she scrunches up her nose adorably, and I realize that, while I’m still not happy she's keeping this big secret from me, there is a lot of amusement to be had from it. Just like I enjoy messing with Gigi's and Vito's heads with their littlesecret, Scarlet is about to learn the consequences of keeping things from me. In my mind, I roll up my sleeves. Yes, this will be entertaining.

"Absolutely not, passerotta. This is just a precaution because of your stomach… condition. I don't want you to get sick again." I reply with a smirk. Two can play this game, and she'll soon learn that she challenged a master.

"I don’t think salad is that good for my stomach," she pushes the fork through the greens, spearing a tomato.

"I'll tell Fredo to get some other food, but that's the best I could come up with right now," I explain, watching her squirm. Scarlet always has a healthy appetite, watching her pick listlessly at her salad makes me almost feel bad for her, but then my stomach grumbles, reminding me that I'm a victim here, too.

A little while later, we sit companionably, but still hungry, by my desk; I with a laptop, and she barely visible behind the five screens. We split the list to make it faster.

I could have outsourced this, but honestly, working with her like this does something to me. Her calm, efficient presence is like a soothing balm for my usually flaring temper.

"Here, this guy, Frederico Manisol," she shouts triumphantly after another hour. "He's been in and out of jail, drugs, bank robbery, assault with a deadly weapon, and, listen to this, nearly killing his girlfriend after hestabbedher."

My little sleuth is right. That sounds like the perfect suspect.

"How did he get hired at that hotel?" I wonder. This isn't the first time this particular hotel has housed a jury or important witnesses. I've done my homework too.

"Well," I love the way her forehead creases, how she chews on the poor innocent pencil as her fingers hack at the keyboard as if stabbing it.

"Hah!" She exclaims.

Curiously, I walk over to her. An Instagram account is up. "See here, hisfriendsandfamily?"

I nod, and then my eyes catch on a name, Bart Matthews, HR manager of—amply named— HotelJustice.

I whistle quietly. "Passerotta, I think you missed your calling."

Her melodious giggle is enough to give me another hardon.

"Now what?" She swivels in her chair, finally letting go of the pencil.

"Now, I’ll give that name to Vito and let him do his magic while I…" I pick her up, "will do mine."

"Which is?" She wants to know, nibbling on my earlobe.

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