never have.
But God was, per his usual practice where Jack was concerned, silent.
Fine, God. Fine.
Angry again, Jack yanked the bag’s zipper closed, threw the whole thing to the floor and kicked it into the corner as he stalked to the bathroom.
“I’m taking a shower,” he called before he slammed the door.
Chapter 9
Kareem Gregory got home just as the first yellow rays of sun were cracking through the trees. Man, it was late. He checked his watch again, wondering why he hadn’t gotten a call yet from Yogi, telling him they’d dealt with Parker. He’d better hear soon.
Meanwhile, it was good to be home. It was a great crib—a Tuscan-style villa, 10,000 square feet and $ 1 million of it—in one of Cincinnati’s best neighborhoods, surrounded by a solid brick wall and security cameras.
All in Mama’s name, of course, because that was the way these things were done when you ran a string of customized auto shops, the customers often paid in cash, and the feds were therefore constantly breathing down your neck, wondering where all the money came from.
The DEA would love to seize this house. They still might. God knew they were working on it. Too bad he was always one step ahead of them.
He tried not to make too much noise and wakeanyone up, not that he was creeping in. He didn’t
creep,
not in his own damn house.
Although … if Kira’d give him what he wanted, he wouldn’t have to step out, but Kira wouldn’t let him touch her. Why? He hadn’t been exactly honest about some of his business dealings before they got married. Hadn’t really mentioned that his auto shops didn’t account for the bulk of his income. Why should he? Did a man have to fill out a disclosure form before he got married? Hell, no. He was an entrepreneur; he owned some businesses; he had some money. That was what he’d told Kira, and that was all she needed to know.
He was a businessman. Maybe he didn’t have a college degree with his name on it, but he was a visionary, the same as Bill Gates or Warren Buffett, who had an organization with rules and layers, profits and projections and losses.
But he’d lied.
Partially because Kira had been trying so hard to escape the ugliness from her childhood that she’d never marry into a situation that might send her back down the same road. Mostly because he needed to see that innocence in her eyes, to know that she looked to him as some kind of knight with the shining armor and black stallion and shit, an honest man who would rescue and protect her.
An honorable man. That’s what she’d wanted and that’s what she’d gotten. He had ethics and principles that he lived by and that he required of those who worked for him. They just weren’t the ethics and principles that she thought.
So they’d gotten married and they’d been happy.
Two years after that, it all went to hell. Thanks to the DEA and their undercover agents, assorted snitchesand entrapment, his beautiful life had gone south on an express bullet train riding greased rails, and she’d turned away.
He hated her for that.
What had happened to the
for better or for worse
part? Huh? Her pretty little manicured hands weren’t clean in this mess. Oh, no. She’d played her role. She’d been—what was the word?—complicit. Yeah, that was it. She’d pretended she didn’t know that drugs were paying for her house and her clothes and her college education, but she
knew.
She saw guns and the bodyguards, the feds and their warrants and their searches and their Big Brother routine.
Kira was complicit, the same as Carmela Soprano was complicit in Tony’s business activities, the same as Kay Corleone was complicit in Michael’s. Wives
knew.
They always knew. And they accepted.
So why wouldn’t Kira act like his wife?
Halfway down the hall, he heard the light jangling of tags and the click of nails on the polished floor, and met up with the stupid little dog she’d gotten while he was in the pen. Fucking beagle.
But God was, per his usual practice where Jack was concerned, silent.
Fine, God. Fine.
Angry again, Jack yanked the bag’s zipper closed, threw the whole thing to the floor and kicked it into the corner as he stalked to the bathroom.
“I’m taking a shower,” he called before he slammed the door.
Chapter 9
Kareem Gregory got home just as the first yellow rays of sun were cracking through the trees. Man, it was late. He checked his watch again, wondering why he hadn’t gotten a call yet from Yogi, telling him they’d dealt with Parker. He’d better hear soon.
Meanwhile, it was good to be home. It was a great crib—a Tuscan-style villa, 10,000 square feet and $ 1 million of it—in one of Cincinnati’s best neighborhoods, surrounded by a solid brick wall and security cameras.
All in Mama’s name, of course, because that was the way these things were done when you ran a string of customized auto shops, the customers often paid in cash, and the feds were therefore constantly breathing down your neck, wondering where all the money came from.
The DEA would love to seize this house. They still might. God knew they were working on it. Too bad he was always one step ahead of them.
He tried not to make too much noise and wakeanyone up, not that he was creeping in. He didn’t
creep,
not in his own damn house.
Although … if Kira’d give him what he wanted, he wouldn’t have to step out, but Kira wouldn’t let him touch her. Why? He hadn’t been exactly honest about some of his business dealings before they got married. Hadn’t really mentioned that his auto shops didn’t account for the bulk of his income. Why should he? Did a man have to fill out a disclosure form before he got married? Hell, no. He was an entrepreneur; he owned some businesses; he had some money. That was what he’d told Kira, and that was all she needed to know.
He was a businessman. Maybe he didn’t have a college degree with his name on it, but he was a visionary, the same as Bill Gates or Warren Buffett, who had an organization with rules and layers, profits and projections and losses.
But he’d lied.
Partially because Kira had been trying so hard to escape the ugliness from her childhood that she’d never marry into a situation that might send her back down the same road. Mostly because he needed to see that innocence in her eyes, to know that she looked to him as some kind of knight with the shining armor and black stallion and shit, an honest man who would rescue and protect her.
An honorable man. That’s what she’d wanted and that’s what she’d gotten. He had ethics and principles that he lived by and that he required of those who worked for him. They just weren’t the ethics and principles that she thought.
So they’d gotten married and they’d been happy.
Two years after that, it all went to hell. Thanks to the DEA and their undercover agents, assorted snitchesand entrapment, his beautiful life had gone south on an express bullet train riding greased rails, and she’d turned away.
He hated her for that.
What had happened to the
for better or for worse
part? Huh? Her pretty little manicured hands weren’t clean in this mess. Oh, no. She’d played her role. She’d been—what was the word?—complicit. Yeah, that was it. She’d pretended she didn’t know that drugs were paying for her house and her clothes and her college education, but she
knew.
She saw guns and the bodyguards, the feds and their warrants and their searches and their Big Brother routine.
Kira was complicit, the same as Carmela Soprano was complicit in Tony’s business activities, the same as Kay Corleone was complicit in Michael’s. Wives
knew.
They always knew. And they accepted.
So why wouldn’t Kira act like his wife?
Halfway down the hall, he heard the light jangling of tags and the click of nails on the polished floor, and met up with the stupid little dog she’d gotten while he was in the pen. Fucking beagle.
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