Make Me Beg, Daddy

Chapter 45

As I waddle through the kitchen, I pass the wine-colored dress hanging on the back of the office door on a wire hanger. Even after Kane dropped me off here at three in the morning, I was sober enough to know that if I left it on the floor, I’d never forgive myself.

Below it, on the seat of my desk chair, is the envelope containing the settlement.

We’ll come back to that later.

First, I need to see who’s trying to break down my door.

The bakery is dark except for the emergency lights over the ovens. Snow presses gray against the front windows.

A huge figure shadows the glass. At first, before my eyes clear, I get a lurch of fear in my stomach. I’m extremely grateful that Kane sent that repair guy to install the most insane lock I’ve ever seen in my life.

Then my vision resolves and I realize that no lock in the history of humanity would keep out this morning’s unexpected visitor.

Because Kane Makov is here.

He looks offensively put together. I’m basically a cave troll, but he’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, wearing a clean black suit with a black shirt underneath, a rose gold chain looped around his throat, and matching rings.

I unlock the door. “Do you know what time it is?”

“I own a watch, so, yes.”

“Okay, good. Follow-up question: Do you not sleep? Wait, wait, let me guess: You’re one of those ‘sleep is for the weak’ macho men, aren’t you?”

He suppresses a smile. “You don’t make a billion dollars before thirty by staying cozy in your bed.”

I roll my eyes. “God, you’re insufferable.”

His gaze moves over me, starting at my hair and pausing around the general region of my pajama bottoms. Something hot flickers in his eyes.

I pull the cardigan closed. “Well, hurry up and come in if that’s what you want. It’s freezing outside.”

But he lingers for another second on the threshold. “You smell like champagne and Advil.”

“I wish I smelled like Advil. I haven’t gotten around to finding any yet.”

“Then you must smell naturally medicinal.”

I step back to let him inside. “You have a real gift for romance.”

He passes close enough that his coat brushes my bare toes. “You thought last night was romantic?”

“More along the lines of ‘traumatically confusing.’ Though I guess some women would call that the same thing.”

His eyes settle on my mouth. My body, traitorous pudding that it is, liquefies immediately.

“I brought you breakfast.”

He holds up a to-go coffee cup and paper bag I hadn’t noticed. I recognize the blue logo from a nearby diner.

I take it because principles are lovely, but they do not contain bacon.

Inside are two egg sandwiches and a bottle of orange Gatorade. There’s also a packet of Liquid I.V. He doesn’t deserve a “God bless him,” but he’s moving in the right direction.

I carry the bag to the counter. “How do you know my hangover order?”

“Lucky guess. How’d I do?”

“Suspiciously good. If I had more energy, I’d ask if you were stalking me.”

“Lucky for me that you’re too hungover for that, then.”

I glare at him while opening the sandwich, which is in fact exactly correct. “You can’t keep conducting background checks every time I need a beverage.”

“Old dogs never learn new tricks, I’m afraid.” He settles onto the adjacent stool.

I take an enormous bite so I don’t smile.

It’s divine.

The egg is greasy. The roll has been buttered within an inch of its life. It may be the closest I ever come to seeing God.

Kane waits until I swallow. “I’m not sure if you remember reading this part, but the settlement takes effect at noon.”

The sandwich stops halfway back to my mouth. “Come again?”

“Your lawyer has already approved it, so you don’t have to worry about that,” he continues.

I’m massively confused. “You contacted Skye?”

Kane nods. “She went through it all last night, a little after midnight. Rest assured that she was well-compensated for her time.”

He fixes his cuffs, looking a little too pleased with himself for my liking.

“The county clerk also made a few processing exceptions as a favor to me. So, at noon today, the marital settlement becomes effective pending court entry. The house in Sheepshead Bay is yours. Sole title. Your husband has signed away everything in it that isn’t his personally.”

I set the sandwich down carefully. “And Connor?”

“Connor is out.”

“Out of…?”

“The house. He left it Wednesday night,” Kane says. “He’s staying with his father in Bay Ridge. His things are gone. He didn’t take anything he wasn’t entitled to, because he was told what would happen if he did.”

I shake my head, refusing to believe it. “There’s no way in hell he went that easy.”

He smirks. “Men agree to many things when properly motivated.”

I look down at the greasy wrapper. Then I pinch my thigh, just to test out a new theory I’m developing.

But I don’t wake up.

Maybe this isn’t a dream after all.

“Let me get this straight: You evicted my husband before sunrise on New Year’s Day?”

“Your former husband.”

“He isn’t former until the judge stamps something.”

“I’m an optimist.”

I stare at him.

He stares back.

The green eyes are calm, almost bright. I’m curious what other kinds of potentially felonious things he’s gotten up to this morning to kick off the New Year, but I’m scared that he might answer honestly.

“What did you do to him?”

“Nothing permanent.”

“Kane!”

“He was given time to pack.”

“How much time?”

“Enough.”

“That is not a valid unit of measurement.”

“He’s alive.”

“That’s a very low bar.”

“It’s the only one that interests me where Connor Boyd is concerned.”

This is all too much. It’s domineering. It’s presumptuous. It’s crazy!

But if “crazy” gets that cheating parasite thrown out of my real estate…

Do I care?

I don’t know. My head hurts and I’m very tired. A girl can only take so much when there’s alcohol currently ruining her body from the inside out.

Kane reaches for my sandwich and folds the wrapper around it. “Get dressed. We’ll take this to go.”

“Excuse me?”

“We’re taking a field trip.”

I glance at the dark kitchen. “My staff arrives soon.”

“I’ll have someone stay behind to inform them and lend an extra hand if necessary.”

My eyes narrow. “Is there anything you didn’t think of?” I snap, sounding way more irritated than I actually feel.

Kane grins. “Only one way to find out.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’m in clean clothes, with brushed teeth and a washed face, on the way to Sheepshead Bay in the back of Kane’s black Escalade, with our old friend Stepan at the wheel.

The outside world looks about how I feel. Half-deflated New Year’s balloons bounce along a frost-covered fence near Prospect Park. A man in pajama pants walks a beagle wearing gold antlers, looking green and queasy in the face.

But that’s normal. I almost envy him.

My no-longer-normal life involves sitting beside a crime lord whose mouth I know a little too intimately.

I look over at him.

Kane is in the other captain’s seat, focused on his phone. He jumps between encrypted text threads and email, firing off messages as fast as he can.

In profile, he looks less like a living, breathing person and more like a moody statue in a darkened museum exhibit. His forehead slopes into a straight nose; his mouth is severe, except for the curl that appears whenever an email displeases him.

His black shirt is open at the throat, showing the rose-gold chain and a wedge of tattooed skin. One shoulder rests against the leather seat. The other bunches up whenever he sends something, tendons flexing beneath his cuff.

He’s too pretty. Men who threaten kneecaps should not have eyelashes like that.

Mob bosses should come with warning labels and unfortunate pores.

Maybe dandruff. Something humane.

He catches me staring without turning his head.

“See something you like, Lilah?”

I face the window. “I’m evaluating your screen-time habits.”

“Concerned for my eyesight?”

“Big time. Blue light could damage your ability to menace people.”

His mouth curves.

I feel a little thrill in my stomach.

We turn onto my street. I recognize the house at once. Pale siding in need of a fresh coat of paint. Bare hydrangeas clawing at the snow.

What I don’t recognize is the garbage truck idling at the curb. It’s not garbage pickup day, and even if it were, it’s a holiday.

I also don’t recognize the two men in dark work clothes who are currently emerging from my house.

They’re carrying a long piece of wood down the front steps. One has the footboard. The other holds the dark oak headboard with its leaning left knob.

My heart stops.

We pull in behind the garbage truck. The men lift the headboard toward its metal mouth.

I grab the door handle. “Tell them to stop.”

Kane issues a one-word answer: “No.”

I swing around. “That was my grandmother’s!”

“I know,” he intones emotionlessly.

“Then what the hell are they doing?”

“Removing a shitty memory.”

The truck’s hydraulic lift groans. I lunge for the exit, but Kane’s hand closes around my wrist.

“Let go,” I hiss at him.

He does immediately.

But it’s too late.

By the time I shove the door open, the headboard is gone.