Page 37 of Unholy Union
Yet for the briefest moment, she’d almost sounded hurt that I wasn’t coming.Beforeshe just switched to outright anger and defiance.
“So if you won’t be here, then I’m going out!” she’d told me boldly, her voice trembling with emotion.
“If you go out, you’ll regret it. What have I told you? You’re my wife now, which means you do as I say. If I want you home having dinner, then guess where you’ll be?”
“That’s where you’re wrong, my dear husband,” she’d hissed. “You might have married me, but I’m your wife, not your slave. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
And then she hung up.
She fucking hung up on me.
I bared my teeth like an animal, blood surging through my veins, the hot rush of anger flooding me. I was standing outside the front doors of the steakhouse, but it didn’t matter anymore. The dinner was off my mind. I was about to get in the car and bark at my driver to drive me the fuck home.
Just so I could teach my mouthy little principessa a lesson.
But then the art collectors showed up and I snapped back to my senses. If I let Sabrina bait me into going home, then she effectively won—she proved she could manipulate me into doing what she wanted.
That will never happen. She’ll never get her way and she’ll never manipulate me.
“So, Mr. Valente,” says the female collector between sips of her wine, “you were saying you could have the clearance through Genoa within a week?”
I’ve hardly heard the question as I pull out my phone under the table and check the latest notification to hit. It’s another text from staff about Sabrina.
Mrs. Valente just snuck off the premises. Security footage shows someone in a Camaro picked her up.
“Fucking morons!” I growl, slamming a fist on the table. The dinner plates, forks, knives, and wine glasses all jump, some teetering precariously near the edge.
Both of the art collectors gasp and stare at me wide-eyed from across the table.
“I’ve got to go,” I say, scooting my chair back so fast it tips over. “Contact my assistant, Harper, to finalize the details for the contract.”
They’re the only words I give them as I turn and storm out of the steakhouse. More text messages have hit my phone detailing how security is following Sabrina and the mystery Camaro, but it doesn’t even fucking matter.
I’ve opened the tracker app on my phone and am watching the blinking little green dot that signifies my wife on the screen.
Her wedding ring tells me everywhere she goes.
She’s making her way from Old Westbury where the Valente estate is located into Manhattan.
My driver’s standing beside the Escalade on a smoke break. He doesn’t expect me to come striding out of the Butcher so suddenly. He chokes on his cigarette at the sight of me heading toward him, coughing and pounding a fist into his chest.
“Mr. Cato, sir… I… uh… what…”
“Give me the keys.”
“But… what…?”
“I said give me the fucking keys!”
He trips over himself getting out of my way, handing me the ring of keys. I snatch them and cross over to the driver’s side. Lazaro is already opening the passenger side door.
I’m a maniac on the roads. I don’t even know where the hell we’re going, checking the tracking app over and over again to watch the green dot’s progress.
Halfway down East 52ndStreet, I pop a U-turn that makes the tires screech and rubber burn. Lazaro grips the overhead handle, and several cars in nearby lanes slam to a halt and honk their horns.
I don’t give a shit. I’m following the green dot and the green dot is headed toward West 14thStreet, the Meatpacking District.
Where the fuck is Sabrina going that she’s headed to the Meatpacking District at nine p.m. on a Friday night? And whose fucking car is she in? Who is she with? Is it Tessa Lucchesi? That greasy-haired soccer asshole she used to date in college?
