The Mafia's Racer Bride

Chapter 9

Anthony French

"Boss," Marco's voice crackled through my phone speaker while I stood frozen in front of the illuminated mirror.

I didn't answer right away as I continued adjusting the heavy silver cufflink at my right wrist, the metal catching the sharp, cold light of the penthouse as I smoothed down the dark lapel of my tailored suit.

"We have a complication with the downtown high-rise zoning permits," Marco continued, his tone tight. "Councilman Brown is refusing to sign off unless we provide his campaign fund with an extra half-million under the table. He thinks our timeline is tight enough that we'll cave."

The sudden fury hit the back of my throat like a dose of acid, burning hot and instantaneous. I hate it when weak men start to mistake my business investments for an open invitation to take advantage.

"Tell him that we are not a f*cking charity!" I roared, slamming my palm down onto the hard wood counter in the middle of the walk in closet enough to rattle the crystal decanters sitting on the table. "If Brown thinks he can delay French Holdings just to line his own pockets because his campaign fund is bleeding out, he has another damn thing coming! Tell him the zoning approval lands on my desk by sunrise, or I’ll release every single ledger of his offshore accounts to the federal prosecutor before he can even blink!"

"Understood, boss," Marco’s steady voice replied, unfazed by the eruption. "I'll handle the leverage."

"Pull every financial file we have on him," I ordered, my voice dropping back down to a cold, lethal hum as I fixed my tie and picked up my phone from the counter tighter. "Find out who's bankrolling his re-election. I want his largest backers bought out, his leverage stripped, and his political career buried before the week is over. No one bleeds my margins."

I don’t like giving mercy to people like Brown. They always think that they can bag my money because I was kind to them for the first time.

"Consider it done," Marco replied smoothly.

I took a slow, deep breath, forcing the remaining venom back down into my chest before turning away from the mirror in my closet. I stepped out of my bedroom, my heavy leather shoes clicking sharply against the hardwood as I headed down the corridor toward the dining area, ready to face my wife.

The older housekeeper, Dulce, was quietly putting the finishing touches on the long breakfast table. My wife wasn't there yet, true to form. She always waited until I was already seated before she dared to appear.

“Dulce, how’s my wife?” I asked, pulling out my chair.

“Mr. French, she’s fine,” she replied with her thick Mexican accent. “She does not talk a lot and makes no request for food. She eats whatever I prepare. Then she even tried to wash the dishes herself, but I stopped her.”

“Thank you. Make sure you don’t serve any meat here.”

“Si, Mr. French.”

Dulce quietly slipped away, leaving me alone at the massive table as I stared up toward the grand staircase, waiting for my wife to come down. I strained my ears against the quiet hum of the penthouse, listening for the soft scuff of her footsteps. Minutes ticked by, and still, she didn't appear.

Is she sick? Is she not feeling well? This exact worry was why I put my foot down and refused to let her race at Laguna Seca, because I knew her body was still broken and overwhelmed. When I saw the old, fading bruises and the fresh, jagged wounds on her arms. I am sure there’s more to that than my eyes have seen. I knew deep down she needed weeks to breathe, let alone drive at two hundred miles an hour.

I abruptly stood up from my chair, my appetite completely gone, and walked upstairs toward her bedroom. I knocked twice against her bedroom door, waiting.

No one answered.

“Kelsey?” I called out, my chest tightening with an unfamiliar spike of panic.

Still nothing. Without another second of hesitation, I pushed the heavy door open because a cold dread was already coiling in my gut. But I wasn't prepared for the sight waiting for me.

She was huddled in the far corner of the room, curled up tightly into a shivering ball against the wall. And the second the door clicked open, I saw the violent, sickening way she flinched, pulling herself inward as if bracing for a physical blow.

“Kelsey.” I forced my boots to move, walking slowly toward her across the floor. I tried to soften my voice as much as humanly possible, stripping every ounce of authority out of it.

I saw it clearly now. The terrified way she shrank away from me, the same defensive posture she displayed whenever she waited for my permission to sit at a table. This is what f*cking Kennedy did to his own kid. Henri is never going to forgive himself if he finds out that his one and only granddaughter was systematically broken and traumatized by that animal. I always knew how much Henri despised his worthless son-in-law.

Kelsey’s mother, Elise Moreau, married Kennedy f*cking Schmidt against her own father's furious warnings. Back when I first crossed paths with Kennedy years ago, I knew instantly he was poison to everyone he touched. And God help me, I was right.

“Kelsey, why are you sitting over here?” I knelt onto the hard floor in front of her, keeping my movements slow and deliberate, making damn sure my voice stayed low and gentle. I didn't want to terrify her any more than she already was.

“Are you going to hurt me?” Her voice cracked, small and defeated.

She must have heard me shouting down the hall during my call with Marco. Kelsey is far too young and far too fragile to carry this kind of deep-seated trauma. I don't even care when Kennedy started breaking her down, because finding out will only give me more reason to tear his life apart piece by piece.

“Did I do something wrong? I'm sorry, please. I promise I will behave.” Her striking icy-blue eyes, the ones that seemed to shift colors in the natural light, swelled with sudden, heavy tears. It broke something dark inside me. This woman looked fierce, brave, and untouchable out there on the racing track in front of thousands of screaming fans, but inside these walls, she was entirely shattered.

“Kelsey, no. Look at me. I’m just here to tell you that breakfast is ready.”

I wanted nothing more than to reach out, to pull her into my arms and run my fingers through her smooth, honey-blonde hair, but I kept my hands planted firmly on my knees. I couldn't risk making her flinch away from my touch again. It made my stomach churn. She had zero reason to be afraid of me, yet here she was, trembling in her own skin.

“I’ll eat later,” she whispered, staring blindly at the floor.

I swallowed hard and gave a slow nod. I didn't have a choice. Pushing her right now would only make everything worse for Kelsey.

“If you want anything at all, just tell Dulce.”

She offered a tiny, mechanical nod. I forced myself to stand up, sliding my hands deep into my trouser pockets to keep them from reaching for her. I turned my back and walked away, my footsteps heavy against the wood. Every instinct in my body screamed at me to stay, to sit there on the floor until she stopped shaking, but I knew I couldn't do that. She needed time, space, and a miracle to adjust to my presence after what she had survived.

I walked back down toward the kitchen to find Dulce, my stomach entirely hollow. “Dulce, make sure she gets whatever she asks for. I’m leaving for the office.”

“Yes, Mr. French.”

I stepped into the private lift and pressed the button down, automatically bringing a hand up to massage my throbbing temples. What the hell am I supposed to do to convince her that I would never lay a hand on her? I would cut my own arms off before I ever hurt her.

By the time I reached my downtown office, I couldn't focus on my meeting or the real estate acquisitions because all I could see behind my eyelids was the sheer terror in my wife's eyes. Now that I’ve locked her safely away inside my penthouse, I realized I had to change. I had to stop shouting because yelling was her trigger, and I refused ever to be the source of that terror again. I wanted her to feel safe, protected, and completely at home.

The Moreau family gave me a lifeline when I was nothing, and this marriage was supposed to be my ultimate payback. Kelsey is the last living piece of the Moreau legacy left in this cruel world.

Restless, I pulled my tablet out and tapped into the live feed of the penthouse living room. I had the security system upgraded and the cameras installed this morning, not to control her, but because I have this relentless, obsessive compulsion to keep eyes on my wife, to make sure she's breathing, safe, and not hiding away in the dark.

As it turned out, my timing was dead-on.

The elevator door opened, and five of my men walked in carrying an absurd number of designer paper bags, boxes, and garment bags. Everything I had ordered was delivered to Kelsey. When she packed up her entire life from that hellhole, she only brought a worn-out duffel bag. That wasn't going to cut it anymore.

I had bought her an entirely new wardrobe. High-end clothes, shoes, bags, heavy jewelry, and everything a young woman could need, carefully hand-picked down to her exact measurements. I watched through the high-definition lens as the living room suddenly filled with luxury packaging, and Kelsey stepped in cautiously, looking utterly bewildered.

“Uh… what is all of this?” she asked, her voice carrying through the audio feed as she hesitated in the middle of the floor.

“Mrs. French, the boss bought all of these for you,” one of my men answered respectfully.

“For me?”

My men quickly bowed their heads and filed out, leaving my wife standing alone amidst a mountain of designer bags. I watched closely as she tentatively reached out to inspect the nearest bag. Even though I knew Kelsey earned a high salary as a Mercedes development driver, I had never once seen her wear any expensive jewelry or a designer dress. She always wore simple, practical clothes on race days.

It didn't take a genius to figure out why. Kennedy Schmidt had systematically drained every cent she earned to feed his pathetic gambling addiction at the casinos.

A dark, lethal satisfaction curled in my chest. Kennedy better start praying to whatever god he believes in. I wasn't even going to personally hunt him down for what he did to Kelsey under his roof because the New York Gambino family was already coming for him to collect on the millions he owed, because Kelsey did not come right on time to their doorstep.

The Gambino will get enraged once they also find out that I married Kelsey.

Kelsey was permanently out of their reach now. Kelsey is my wife now. And if any of those bastards even thought about touching the wife of the king of the West Coast, it would mean a war.

The Gambino syndicate wasn't stupid enough to trigger a full-scale regional bloodbath over a deadbeat gambler because they knew they would lose millions in assets and still end up at the bottom of the bay.

My desk phone buzzed sharply, pulling me out of my thoughts just as I watched Kelsey holding her phone up to her ear on the camera screen.

She was calling me.

I picked up the phone instantly, pressing it tight against my ear while my eyes remained glued to the live monitor. I zoomed in on the camera, watching the subtle micro-expressions of awkwardness and deep hesitation play across her innocent face.

“Hi… um, I just wanted to call and say sorry for how I acted this morning.”

“You’re good,” I mumbled softly into the line, keeping my voice low.

“By the way… thank you for all the things you bought me…” I could hear the exact moment she clamped her mouth shut, stopping herself from rambling because she was too nervous to say more.

Just like Dulce said, she was naturally quiet, unused to taking up space or demanding attention.

“Of course, wife,” I murmured, watching her chew nervously on her lower lip.

But I had all the time in the world, and I am going to change that.