Page 101 of Misdeeds of a Billionaire
Marco’s hands on Odette’s waist as he lifted her up in the air, then pecked her cheek, lingering for far too long. My teeth clenched. For the next five minutes, I watched the recording play out, scenes from their apparent lunch date compiled, including a series of images that made my blood boil. It seemed he kept finding ways to touch her. Red mist marred my vision. Anger crept beneath my skin, slow but searing. I had to take a second to swallow down the burning jealousy that raged inside me, so strong, I could barely form a coherent thought.
The recording showed my wife having a cozy lunch with her ex-buddy, Marco. And his hands were on my woman.Myfucking woman.
The irrational part of me—the obsessive, jealous one—pounded at my chest, shaking the bars of its cage. I wanted to shout “get the fuck away from her” to the world and to fucking Marco. But I was three hours away.
The sound of the plane’s engine was distorted by the rage rushing through me. I had to close my eyes and take a deep breath to clear my head. She might have been in a cafe surrounded by people—her sister included—in the middle of the day, but I was far from comfortable having him anywhere near my son. And I sure as shit did not like how close he was sitting tomywife.
I dialed up Nico and he answered on the first ring. “Let me guess, you want my guy to follow Dr. Swan home.”
“She’s not to be left alone with that guy,” I gritted. “Not for one minute.”
“Sure thing.”
My next call was to my brother-in-law.
“Didn’t you just leave here?” was Alexei’s greeting.
I got straight to work. “I need a favor.”
“I have a feeling it has something to do with your wife.”
He was fucking right. I never asked for favors and here I was—asking for one from Nico Morrelli and, probably worse, Enrico Marchetti.
“I need Tatiana’s husband to get a name to Enrico Marchetti.”
The perks of his sister Tatiana marrying Illias Konstantin were never lost on me in times like these. Konstantin had vast connections in the underworld and, most importantly, to the owner of one of the major fashion houses. Enrico Marchetti.
“A model candidate?”
“Wrong.” So fucking wrong. I still stared at the recording of my wife having lunch with Marco, who was now holding her hand. “I want a certain individual to be blacklisted from all runways and fashion shows.”
Jesus fucking Christ. I was so in love with her, with each breath she took… with her smiles, her backbone, and her strength. Every. Single. Fucking. Thing.
I adored every piece of her. She had been my kryptonite from the moment I met her.
She was finally back in my life, and that fucker wouldn’t take her away from me. Odette and our son belonged in my life. I belonged to them. The three of us would be a unit forever.
And Marco…
He’d get the beating of his lifetime if he got anywhere near them again. My knuckles itched to hunt down the fucker now and punch him. Break that pretty face so she would never look at him. Never smile at him.
Exactly like I did to that drunk asshole who drove into her.
My memory drifted to the past.
The drunk glared at me, his face bruised and bloodied. He looked the way my soul felt, but I couldn’t think aboutherright now.
We were a mistake.
Anger flared through me and I hit him again. His head snapped back, and a pained groan filled the air. I wanted to punish him. For hurting my woman. For taking our chance at having a baby. For stealing my chance at having her. My happiness.
It had been two days since the accident. Two days since she asked me to leave. I walked away from George Washington Hospital, leaving my heart behind. It was broken anyhow—forever damaged—and the only woman who could heal it wanted nothing to do with me.
A mistake.I hated that fucking word.
So I took it out on the fucker who hurt her. On the fucker who had his hands on her. No one threatened what was mine. And, fuck it, Odette was my woman.
I walked over to the table, put on my brass knuckles, and returned to my victim.
