The Wolf and the Sheep (Wolf 1)

She left them on the table but didn’t argue with me.

“How much do you make at the opera?”

She took a long drink then licked her lips. “Maybe a thousand euro every two weeks.”

“That’s nothing.”

“I don’t have any bills, so it’s plenty. Otherwise, I would just put the money into your account anyway.”

I wouldn’t take a dime from her.

“So, I’ll just cash my checks and spend that.”

I’d dreaded marrying this woman, but now it didn’t seem so bad. She didn’t rip into my wallet right away, and she did make an effort to be nice to me…even if it annoyed me sometimes. She could never get me to like her, but she was getting me to respect her—which was impressive. “Your name is on one of my accounts, so you can go to the bank if you need something.”

“Why would you do that?” she asked, dead serious. “Maverick, I don’t need your wealth. I’m only here because I need the protection. But I don’t need your money, and I certainly don’t need to be on your account.” She sipped her drink again then eyed her cigar.

I closed the folder and picked up my cigar again. “How long have you smoked?”

She took a deep puff and let the smoke rise from her mouth and drift toward the ceiling. “A few years. I only do it once in a while…maybe two times a year.”

So, much rarer than I did.

“You?”

“I’ve been smoking for ten years.”

“And how often?”

“Weekly.”

She didn’t give me a judgmental stare, but there was a slight pursing of her lips. “That’s not good. You should cut back.”

“I should do whatever I want.” There were so many things in this world that could kill me. I chose to live how I wanted, and that was on the dangerous side. I finished the scotch and left the glass on the empty table before I rested against the cushion of the couch.

“How old are you?”

The question was unexpected, and it also indicated how little she knew about me. Given how angry she was at her father at the time, she’d probably never had the opportunity to ask about me—especially since she’d refused to marry me. “Almost thirty.”

“That could mean anything. That could be twenty-six.”

“Twenty-nine.” And my birthday was on Saturday. When I meant almost, I meant it literally. I didn’t know anything about her either, other than the fact that she was an opera singer, and that was only because her father took me to a performance. I’d never cared to learn about her either because she would never mean anything to me. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

Jesus, she was young. This woman was almost ten years younger than me. I never would have guessed it, not because her appearance suggested she was close to my age, but because she possessed the attitude of someone much older. She had wisdom, she had grace, she wasn’t an obnoxious party girl that had only been drinking for a couple years.

“So, you’re an old man.” A slight smile stretched across her lips, like she was teasing me.

With the amount of shit I’d seen, I certainly felt like an old man. “I feel like one.”

Her firm legs were crossed at the knee, her slender calves noticeable underneath her dress. Her skin reminded me of the color of my cheese, just before it was covered in the wax seal and stored on the wooden shelves. It was such a beautiful color, like a blush rose petal that had never been harmed by the sun’s damaging rays. I forced my eyes down into my drink, careful not to stare at her.

“My father never explained your role in the underworld. It seems like you and your father have bloody hands.”

“We aren’t different from everyone else. Sometimes we make illegal trades, sometimes we buy things that shouldn’t be for sale, sometimes we break the rules just for the hell of it. My father and I used to be more involved in drug trafficking across the shore to Turkey. There’s a lot of money in that. But things started to get too serious, and we were in too deep. We built a reputation for ourselves because we never let anything stand in our way. But all of that changed when we pissed off Ramon and he wanted revenge. So he crossed the line and took my mother. We got out of the game and never went back.” It had been a stupid decision on our part all along because we didn’t need the money in the first place. Our greed cost us my mother’s life. All that money we’d made was covered in her blood now. It was tainted.

“I’m sorry.” Even when she wasn’t singing, she had the most beautiful voice. It was whimsical, somehow musical. She could express her emotions so easily because the sound of her voice was so heavy with her thoughts. So when she whispered those words, it was obvious she meant them. “When will you kill him?”