Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

Chapter 13

“What is this place?”

I glance down at my wife, a twinge of nausea tickling my esophagus—be it age or upbringing, the fact that we’re standing just inside a dive bar and she has no idea what it is unsettles me.

Age has never been an issue concerning her—in truth, I only met her in person a couple of times when she was a child, and it was long after she turned eighteen that I allowed myself to see her in any other light than as a Ricci daughter.

She just has an air about her that takes age out of the equation.

Except now.

Part of me should feel bad that I’m ruining the girl’s life before she’s even had a chance to experience it, but the other, darker part of me recalls how mine was stripped away by her parents, and that erases the guilt.

I was far younger than she.

“A bar,” I answer, gesturing at the stretch of counter to our left. One of Jonas’s men, Vincent, sits on a stool behind it, picking his teeth with a plastic fork.

She makes a face at him, then glances around. “How did I get in? I’m not twenty-one yet.”

“You’re with me, and the same rules that apply for the general public haven’t applied to me in years.”

Placing my hand on her lower back, I try not to admire the soft cotton feel of the little red sundress she has on. The neckline plunges between her cleavage, knotting below her breasts, and I want more than anything to untie it and feast on her right here, right now.

In the days since the flash drive showed up on my porch, we’ve settled into a sort of routine; I’ve been working overtime trying to find the culprit—to no fucking avail—and she spends hers ordering shit with my credit card and trying to figure out how to use it.

The first day, it was fishing. She ordered a neon pink pole and matching tackle box, and was up and out of bed at four in the morning, prepared to put her research to the test.

She was back inside within an hour, huffing about how no one told her fishing was so boring.

Another day was stargazing, though she passed out before the best constellations appeared.

I only know because I haven’t slept since her arrival, sitting in the living room armchair each night with a bottle of scotch, trying to get up the nerve to join her in bed.

But there’s a reason she hasn’t seen me naked yet; same as why I can’t let myself be that vulnerable next to her. The cartography of my body, though lean and sculpted through years of rigorous exercise, is marred with many blemishes.

Evidence of my evil deeds tattooed permanently into my skin.

All of that has nothing to do with why I haven’t fucked her yet, though. There really isn’t a concrete reason behind that fact, just the reality.

When I fuck her, I want to do it right, and I don’t want to risk losing a hard-on because I’m too busy thinking about the people coming after us, or how my plan is unraveling before I’ve even executed it.

Hence, our arrival at the Flaming Chariot. With its rickety wooden floors and the boards nailed into the windows, blocking all sunlight, I’m surprised my little wife doesn’t turn and make a run for it.

This certainly isn’t a place she’d frequent of her own volition.

And yet, the second my hand touches her, she almost melts into the motion, allowing me to guide her across the room. My shoulders tense as we walk, irritation bleeding down my spine as heads turn and eyes rake over her curves, as if on display for them.

They must not recognize me in this light.

We settle into a booth at the back—the same one Knees Morelli sat in two weeks ago. Gwen, a waitress with spiky blonde hair and a nose piercing, comes over to take our order, and Elena tentatively plucks a paper menu from the napkin dispenser, pursing her lips as she scans it.

“I don’t eat a lot of seafood,” Elena says, turning the menu over in her hands. She glances up at Gwen. “What would you recommend?”

“Nothing solid,” Gwen drones, tapping her pen on the end of her notepad.

“Gwen,” I mutter, resting my arm along the back of the booth where Elena sits. “Customer service manners, remember?”

She rolls her eyes, shifting her weight to the other foot. “I’m trying to save her from definite food poisoning. Vincent’s manning the kitchen today, and Jonas won’t even eat his cooking.” Glancing at Elena, she widens her brown eyes. “Jonas eats anything. Just not if Vincent’s touched it.”

Sighing, I rub the spot between my brows with a knuckle, trying to dispel the ache I get each time I step foot in this establishment. If it didn’t have such a cultlike following on Aplana, there’s no way I’d allow it to continue on in the shape it’s in, but my mother always told me not to break things if they didn’t need fixing.

So it stays, in all its shitty glory.

“Why is Vincent behind the bar if he’s also supposed to be in the kitchen?” I ask.

Gwen shrugs. “We’re short-staffed. The new girl called in sick, so Blue’s been helping make drinks.”

The new girl called in? Fuck. “And who’s at the door, if Blue’s in here?”

“Um...” Gwen shifts, casting a quick look around the room as if searching for the six-foot, two-hundred-thirty pounds of muscle I hired to keep an eye on our patrons. Of course, having come in through the front, I already know the answer. “No one?”

Inhaling deeply, I try to tamp down the rage bubbling like a piping cauldron inside my gut. It burns, threatening violence; Gwen takes a step back from the table as if she can sense an impending explosion.

“I’d like to try the shellfish lasagna. Stick as close to my Italian roots as I can get, you know?” Elena says suddenly, sliding the menu across the table. “And I’d love a Diet Coke.”

Gwen studies Elena, raising an eyebrow. She doesn’t touch the menu, then swings her gaze back to me, as if waiting for approval.

Elena stiffens, her shoulders brushing my arm. “I don’t need Kallum’s permission to order food.”

My waitress’s eyes flash with a dull amusement at the use of my full name. “I’m just not sure you know how bad of a cook Vinny is—”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Elena turns her chin up, scooting toward me in the booth until our thighs touch. Her warmth is like a live wire to my groin, the sweet scent of her shampoo intoxicating.

I’m not even sure if she’s aware of her migration, and I’m about to retreat to give her space, when her hand comes down over mine on the table, the diamond on her ring finger glittering in the bar light. Snorting softly, Gwen nods, swiping the menu and jotting something down on her notepad as she turns away.

As soon as her form disappears through the kitchen door, Elena snatches her hand back, shoving it beneath her thigh as she moves away. “How do you know that girl?”

“I’m her boss. Well, by proxy. Technically, my associate Jonas is her boss, but he works for me and I own half the bar, so...”

“You own a bar?” She glances around, tucking her dark hair behind her ear. “This bar?”

I smirk, scooting to my left, eating up the distance between us again, because for whatever reason, her absence leaves me feeling bereft.

“You didn’t think my work for your father was my only source of income, did you? How do you think I afford my home? My jet? My solitude?”

She frowns. “I guess I thought Papá paid well.”

I laugh, but it’s short and hollow. “Rafael doesn’t pay nearly enough.”

Pulling my phone from my pocket, I click my message app open, typing a quick one out to Jonas.

Me: Thanks for the heads-up that Violet called in today.

He replies within seconds.

Jonas: Piss off. I had no clue she wasn’t going to be there. Haven’t been in this week.

Dread funnels in my stomach, a storm of unease brewing. Pushing my tongue against my cheek, I pull up the text thread with my sister. The last six I’ve sent her have gone unanswered.

I knew luring her to the island with a bar-tending gig was a long shot, but it was the only way I could think to get her close enough to try talking to her again.

My last attempt had not gone well, hence the one-sided messages. Even when I reminded her that our association would solve all of her financial troubles, she still made it a point to stay away.

Though we share DNA, it’s clear my long-lost sister is at least somewhat aware of how to avoid the things that are bad for her.

Unlike my little wife, who’s staring daggers at Gwen from across the bar.

“Careful, little one,” I murmur, bending down to speak against the shell of Elena’s ear. “People might get the impression that you like me.”

Elena scoffs, placing her palms on the table. “I’m your wife; I’m supposed to like you. But I just think it’s rude to flirt with married men.”

Her comment feels like a stab wound, gliding through bone and muscle in a direct hit to my heart. I rub at the sore in my chest, nodding to Gwen when she comes back over with a Diet Coke for Elena and a pint for me. She says the food will still be a minute, and saunters off to another table, unfazed by the look my wife gives her.

“We aren’t staying for food,” I tell her, opening up the GPS tracker on my phone to ping Violet’s location.

“But I ordered lasagna.”

“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: you’re of no use to me dead, Elena. Don’t eat the fucking food.”

Sliding away from her, I pick myself up out of the booth, catching Vinny’s attention as I leave her behind and approach the bar. He flips his dark blond hair from his hazel eyes, leaning against the counter.

“‘Sup, boss?”

“You see that girl in the back corner booth?”

He tilts his head to the right, looking past me. Appreciation shines in his gaze, and he nods enthusiastically. “Sure fuckin’ do. Where’d you find a bombshell like that? Wouldn’t mind takin’ her for a ride on the LL Vincent, if you know what I mean. Certainly looks like she could use a little unwinding.”

My annoyance with how this entire afternoon played out ramps up, burgeoning in my throat. Lashing my arm out, I grab Vinny by the collar of his bowling shirt, looping my fingers through the gold chain around his neck.

Pulling tight, I yank so he’s angled awkwardly across the bar, clawing at my hand.

“Can’t... breathe,” he rasps, face blooming a bright crimson color.

“Good. Remember this feeling the next time you decide to talk about my wife like she’s one of your little whores.” Shoving back, I release him, ignoring the disappointment running through my veins at the lack of finality in my threat. “Except next time, I’ll just cut your esophagus out and watch you choke on your blood. Got it?”

“Jesus, Kal.” He rubs his throat, shooting me a glare. I don’t respond, smoothing my hands down the front of my suit, and he straightens on his feet, leaning against the soda tap. “Got it. I didn’t even know you got married.”

“Now you do.” My phone vibrates, my chest pulling tight when I see the name lighting up the screen. “Keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn’t wander, and that no one looks at her too long. I’m all too aware that she’s too enticing for her own good.”

Vinny nods. “Aye, aye, captain.”

Choosing to look over his smart mouth, I head for the front door, keeping my chin straight ahead. I can feel Elena’s eyes on me as I leave the bar, burning holes directly into my back, and I’m tempted to go back inside and sit with her instead.

But I have shit to do.

The sunlight is a bright contrast to the dark interior of the bar, and I’m too busy trying to adjust to notice the girl standing at the curb, arms folded over her chest.

She scoffs when she sees me, mouth pressing into a firm line. “I knew it.”