Page 55 of Damaged Beast
He gave me everything growing up. He worked long hours, ground his body down, twisted himself to make ends meet, and now I can do this for him. My father deserves better.
Good thing I already made a deal with the devil.
CHAPTER 20
PRIME
Idon’t like the way my wife looks at me.
Before she learned about my real job, she thought I was a playboy idiot. Barely more than a collection of nice watches, expensive suits, and attractive one-night-stands.
That was how I liked it.
My lifestyle acts like a shield. Surely nobody would think a man like Prime Spadaro might be running one of the most complex and lucrative drug export businesses in the region.
I let her see through my mask. I gave her a glimpse of who I really am.
And she fucking hates it.
But at least she hasn’t left.
For the first few nights, she slept on the couch. I put an end to that and dragged her back into my bed. She reluctantly fell back into our routine, and now she’s back to acting like my personal assistant, but not much more.
I find it bothers the fuck out of me.
I came into this wanting a business partner. Deanna’s not much more than arm candy. She’s proof to Augustus Fontana that I’m a serious man looking to do serious business.
Beyond that, she’s nothing.
Except now I find myself itching to cross the invisible barrier between us at night, to roll toward her warm body, to kiss her neck and suck her tits, to slide my hand between her legs, to fuck her until she’s grinding and moaning and begging for more, for deeper and harder?—
Which wasn’t supposed to happen.
Now instead of her husband, I’m the fucking criminal who tricked her into this arrangement.
But if that’s what I have to be then I’ll learn to live with myself.
“Looks like we’ll need to resurface in the next year,” I say as I walk across one of our largest lots. It’s located out in west Philly not far from the University of Pennsylvania. We get a lot of college traffic and the spaces are almost always full.
“I’ll make a note of it.” Deanna scribbles on her clipboard. I used to hate that fucking thing. The sound it made as she swapped out papers.
Now it’s strangely adorable.
“Why don’t you go digital? Wouldn’t that be easier?”
“I write faster than I type. When I get back to my desk, I’ll input it all into my notes app for organizing.”
“Makes sense.”
“Why do you care? You’ve never been interested in my process before.”
I take her arm. She stiffens but doesn’t pull away. We wander together through the rows of cars. “Maybe I should have been.”
“You’re only saying that because you feel bad about, you know?—“
“Being a drug dealer?”
“Your words, not mine.”
