Page 45 of Bad Bishop
Perhaps she wasn’t raped, after all? Tate was at Luca’s wedding. She obviously adored the motherfucker. Yes, he was married, but he wouldn’t be the first filthy rich mogul to cheat on his wife when a young, pretty thing dangled herself in front of him.
What if she opened those creamy legs of hers for him?
I tipped my head back, taking a deep, greedy breath. My list of people to murder kept growing. The saying was accurate—there really was no rest for the wicked. But, I mean, a fucking afternoon off wouldn’t hurt.
Tate lived in the UK. I didn’t have time to start expanding my business into Europe.
Her drawing subject aside, my wife was either a savant or a genius. For her sake, I hoped she was the former. I’d hate to kill her and the unborn baby in her belly.
No.
That wasn’t true.
The truth was, killing them would solve many of my problems. It’d just create a thousand new ones in the process.
Feeling much less inclined to honor her privacy now, I dropped the sketchbook on her nightstand, proceeding into her walk-in closet.
She was, indeed, dressed.
She also had her head buried in a cell phone she wasn’t supposed to own, sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes glued to the screen. Her pupils moved from side to side.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
She can read.
Venom spread inside my veins.
Can you read?
What else can you do?
Are you here to spy?
Is Blackthorn your baby daddy?
Are you texting him now?
I wanted to pick her up, pin her to her bed, and fuck every single answer out of her.
Or, I marveled, maybe she was watching something. Her mother mentioned she let her watch classical concerts. After all, this wasn’t the response of someone who was just caught doing something they shouldn’t. She completely ignored my presence.
I rapped on the wall, crossing my arms and leaning against the doorframe.
She didn’t look up.
Little shit.
I stepped inside, entering her line of vision. Her head jolted up, and her mouth dropped open.
Recognition and horror filled her pretty eyes.
“Hello,wifey.”
She scrambled to her feet, shoving the phone into her pocket and jutting her chin up defiantly. The facade of an insentient child was slipping almost as fast as my patience for this marriage.
I knew asking outright wouldn’t get me anywhere. Lila was a Ferrante through and through. If not by blood, then by nature. I couldn’t break her through torture.
But hey, it’d still be fun trying.
