Make Me Beg, Daddy

Chapter 44

“Owing somebody. Yes. But you already owe me four million dollars, so I think one little envelope won’t change the balance too much.” I push it into her hand. “Open it.”

It’s a plain white envelope, folded once down the middle because I’ve had it in my jacket since before she rang my doorbell this afternoon and I’ve been waiting all night for the right minute to give it to her.

There is never a right minute, though.

There’s just the minute you’re standing in.

Lilah turns it over. She works her thumb under the flap carefully, like she’s worried something dangerous is about to pop out from inside.

She pulls out the contents, unfolds the pages, and reads the top line.

Then she stops reading and looks up at me.

“This is a settlement agreement.”

“Yes.”

“It has Connor’s name on it.”

“It has his signature on it, too. Page six. And page seven, and the notary page.” I put my hands in my pockets. “We were very thorough.”

Her mouth falls open. She flips to page six.

I watch her eyes bulge as she recognizes her husband’s handwriting and sees that I’m not lying.

“H…how?” she asks.

I shrug. “He signed his name to a pledge of property he doesn’t own, so I made sure that there is a criminal referral sitting in a drawer in a law office on Fifty-Third Street with his name on it. Forgery in the second degree. Grand larceny. There are others. My lawyer enjoyed listing them.”

“You blackmailed my husband into expediting our divorce?”

“I gave your husband a very simple choice.” I nod at the pages in her hands. “That’s the choice he made. He keeps his car, his clothes, his poker chips, and whatever is left in his checking account, which is nothing. He waives the house. He also waives any claim to the bakery, the equipment, the business, the name, and any interest in it forever. He waives spousal support. He waives contest. He signed a statement that the guaranty was executed without your knowledge or consent.” I tap the corner of the page. “You win, Delilah. This is your trophy. Keep it somewhere safe.”

She turns a page. Then another. She’s reading fast now, but when she reaches the end, she’s still confused.

“I’m just… I’m confused. Skye said this could take months, minimum, even uncontested… But this says… This says that, by the end of the month, it’s all over.”

“Take your time,” I advise her. “Read it through. I’ll give you some space.”

I slip out. Niko is standing at the ballroom doors with a glass of vodka in one hand, clearly waiting for me. He raises the glass in a salute when I come over.

“Happy New Year, brother.”

“Where’s the camera?”

“Anton’s got it in the office. Two cards, both full. He’s going through them.” Niko drinks. “Some of the pictures are of the ballroom. Most of them aren’t.”

“Most of them are of what?”

“Of her,” he says grimly. “Coming down the stairs. Looking at you. Talking to those two women. Glaring daggers at Alisa. Then you two in the closet.” He tips his head. “This wasn’t some random paparazzo. He came here tonight on a mission.”

“Press?”

I look back across the marble. Through the crack in the closet door, I see Delilah. She’s sitting down on the floor with the pages spread on her knees and one shoe off, rubbing her heel. “Somebody sent him.”

Niko nods in agreement. “Could be Vetrov’s man. Could be that lawyer’s office in the Bronx. Could be the guy from the Ridge who’s still sore about the trucks. But I’d put my money on Vetrov.”

“Find out.”

“Tonight? C’mon, brother, it’s a holid⁠—”

“I wouldn’t give a f**k if it was the day of your wedding and the birth of your firstborn all at once.” I keep my eyes on her. “I also don’t care what it costs or who you have to wake to get some answers. I want a name by the time the sun comes up, and I want to know who paid him, and I want to know how long he’s been on her.”

Niko lowers his glass. “Party-pooper.”

He sighs, but he knows better than to argue. He sets the vodka down on the coat check counter, and when he speaks he’s already halfway to being a different man. My second-in-command, not my brother.

“Alright. Consider it done.”

Niko disappears through the service door.

I go back to Lilah. She is still on the floor, with the settlement spread around her. She looks up as I enter. “Did you really do this?”

“Yes.”

“Before I agreed to your holiday deal?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes narrow. “Then why didn’t you use it to make me say yes?”

“Because that would make it coercion. This is a gift.”

She looks down at Connor’s signature. Her thumb strokes over the page. “My lawyer has to read it.”

“Of course.”

“And I’m not signing anything tonight.”

“You don’t have to.”

“And if there’s one weird clause that gives you my kidneys, Skye will find it.”

“I told my lawyer to leave your kidneys alone.”

That gets a short laugh. Then she presses the papers to her chest and shuts her eyes.

I crouch in front of her. “Happy New Year, Lilah.”

She opens her eyes. “You have a very strange idea of a present.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

I pick up her shoes, then hold out my hand. This time, she takes it without arguing.

The map can stay unfinished tonight.

The bakery can wait.

Tonight, we all get a fresh start.

There are hangovers that make you regret drinking.

Then there are hangovers that make you want to go back in time, find the first son of a b***h who fermented a grape, and put your fist through his face.

I wake up on the first day of the first year of the rest of my life with my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth and an ice pick wedged behind my forehead. The space heater is blasting to my left, which means half of me is becoming beef jerky while the other half is slowly turned into a cryogenic popsicle.

For several deeply confusing seconds, I don’t know where I am.

Then my shoulder shifts against the vinyl cot and emits a very familiar squeak.

Right. The bakery.

Home sweet commercial kitchen.

I’ve slept here every night since Christmas Eve. To make it sound less depressing, I’ve been calling it Chateau du Boulangerie in my head.

Pretty exclusive joint. Guests receive one complimentary saltine on arrival. Recent upgrades to the plumbing mean that, when you bathe in the sink, you get almost six full minutes of hot water.

For reasons I cannot fathom, the waiting list really isn’t very long.

Only Priya knows I’m living here. To everyone else—insofar as I’ve spoken to anyone else—my whereabouts remain pleasantly vague.

I keep my eyes closed and wait for the night’s memories to return. I’m sure they will remind me that everything went swell, I conducted myself with the grace of a princess, and there’s not one single solitary thing I need to feel embarrassed about this morning.

Erroneous.

Erroneous on all counts.

The memories consist of the following:

Kane’s mouth on mine in the coat closet. Hot. Greedy. Insistent.

The blinding white of a camera flash.

Connor’s signatures blurring across page after page of an expedited divorce agreement.

That’s the major events in chronological order.

Too bad none of it makes any dang sense.

The man kissed me like he’d never get to do it again. Would he give me one single scrap of information as to what he’s thinking?

Uh, no. Duh, of course not.

But would he stick his tongue in my mouth and drag me against his hard body ‘til the cows come home (or ‘til the photographer comes in, as it were)?

Sure would!

Then, boom—here you go, have a divorce for Christmas.

The last part at least wasn’t a surprise. Well, not completely a surprise.

I did ask for the divorce. I simply expected to pay Skye Brewer several thousand dollars for the privilege of having her argue with Connor’s attorneys over who got to maintain custody of our Ninja blender.

Now, we’re skipping right past that. Kane just took care of it. The party favor of all party favors.

I lift one hand to my swollen lips.

Bad choice. My mouth is transported back to that closet before the rest of me is prepared.

Heat rolls through me, thoroughly inappropriate for a woman wearing Target pajama bottoms with a hole near the crotch.

I kissed him back. Enthusiastically. There was tongue participation. My hands combed through his hair… And did I moan?

Oh, God, I did, didn’t I?

I moaned.

Loudly.

Repeatedly.

If the champagne headache doesn’t kill me, the shame certainly will.

Something knocks against the front of the bakery.

I sit up too fast and nearly detach my brain stem.

“Jesus f*****g holy mother goddamn s**t ow.”

The knock comes again.

I have no idea who it is. Nobody should be here for another forty-five minutes.

Priya has keys. Cameron usually shows up late carrying Dunkin’ and yet another story about the R train.

I stagger out of the office, wearing my cardigan and a hangover severe enough to qualify for workers’ comp.