LINCOLN
Having dinner with Ava is the highlight of my day.
There’s something about coming home to a shy smile and a homemade meal, sitting down at the table with her, and just talking about regular shit. I don’t have to talk about the hits I approved or ordered, the guns that arrived at the warehouse, or how much the Playground made overnight.
We have an unspoken rule that, when we’re together at home, I can go back to being Lincoln—to being Ava’s Link—while leaving Devil and all that poor bastard’s responsibilities and dark reputation at the door.
Do I know that I’m fooling myself?
Of course I do. I can’t not be Devil any more than I can go back in time and return to being the boy that Ava first fell in love with. But can I do whatever it takes to make my wife fall in love with me again?
Fuck if I know, but I’m going to try.
I bring her flowers. I ask her about her day, and she lies about how much she doesn’t hate being trapped in the penthouse. I promise to take her out before, inevitably, my business phone rings and I have to grab another soldier to watch over her while I go out to take care of things…
Maybe it’s not what I thought married life would be like when I fantasized about marrying Ava Monroe when I was seventeen, but we’re still working things out. It’s only been a month, and while I’m damn sure to spend every night in bed with my wife, everything’s still new for both of us. I still lose my temper when I think about that stupid bastard who laid his hands on my Ava. Add that to how Burns keeps me updated on how the “search” for “missing person” Joseph Maglione is going—strong-armed by a member of the Libellula Family, the cop confirms—and I can’t risk letting her step foot out of the penthouse again unless I’m right there at her side.
When we’re sitting in the dining room, sharing a meal, chatting about stupid shit like a real couple, I can fool myself into thinking that she chose me. That she wanted me as her husband instead of being forced into saying ‘I do’ with me.
I’m getting pretty good at it, and then reality comes crashing down on ordinary Tuesday night while we’re eating the steak and mashed potatoes that Mona served for dinner.
I’m almost done with my meal when I notice that Ava has spent more time moving the food around her plate than eating it.
“What’s wrong, pet? You’ve been quiet all night.”
As though she’s trying desperately to find some normalcy in our “relationship”, Ava acts like the girl I remember whenever we’re alone. She’s chatty and smart, witty and thoughtful, silly and sweet. She’s mine, and I spend every minute away from her counting down the seconds until I can tuck a stray strand behind her ear as she tells me another story about her last group of first-graders.
I’m head over heels for a teacher. Part of me is so fucking proud that she lived out her dreams, that she didn’t let me going off the rails the way I did throw her off her path. The other side—the darker side that’s Devil—wonders how she’s going to react when I eventually tell her that she won’t be going back to Springfield Elementary in September.
I couldn’t risk it. Set aside how a school is a dangerous place these days because of fuckers with no brains and guns that I never would’ve passed into their hands. Sooner or later, all of Springfrield is going to know that she’s the Devil’s bride. It won’t be safe for her out there.
I don’t know if it’s safe for her in here, either, but that’s where she’s going to stay.
Tonight, something’s on her mind. I wonder if it’s because she’s figured that out, but then she looks up from her barely-touched food and says, “Did you mean it?”
“Mean what?”
“When you said that this was a real marriage… did you mean it?”
I drop my fork to my plate. “Why are you asking me that?”
I thought we got this shit out of the way. From the moment I claimed her in the judge’s bathroom, she was mine, and there was no going back. For God’s sake, she has my name wrapped around her finger—just like she has me wrapped around her finger—and she still doubts that I’m dead-fucking-serious about spending the rest of my life with her?
What else do I have to do to prove that she’s mine?
“It’s nothing,” she says, pushing her potatoes around the plate.
The fuck it is. “Ava. Tell me.”
She exhales.
I grip the table, so tight my knuckles turn white.
Pretty green eyes flicker my way. “No.”
I’m glad she feels comfortable enough to deny the monster in her midst. I don’t ever want Ava to fear me the same way the rest of Springfield does, and I thought I lost the silver of affection I garnered from her after I showed my true colors at the Playground.
But this is different. The whole conversation started because she can’t shake the idea that our marriage is fake.
I’ll get her to see that it couldn’t be any more real if it’s the death of me—or someone else.
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll get them to.” And they won’t like my ways of getting them to talk. “Mona, too. If they’re talking shit in front of my wife, I know she heard them.”
“No,” yelps Ava. “She stood up for me.”
Ah. “Mona,” I call, lifting my voice so that my housekeeper can hear me. “Come here, please.”
“Link… it’s fine. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Yes. She should.
“You will always tell me when something is bothering you,” I say firmly, waiting for Mona to bustle her way into the living room. “I want to know, especially if it’s something that I can fix.”
“You’ve done enough for me—”
“I’m your husband,” I remind her, hating how cold I sound as I say that. It’s better than raging—which part of me wants to do—but not by much. “I will do everything I can for you.”
“Link…”
I’ve said what I had to about that. Turning as Mona appears in the doorway, I hold up my hand. She comes to a stop, a curious look on her weathered features.
“You called for me, Mr. Lincoln?”
“Yes. I was just talking to my wife and she mentioned that there might have been a few of my men not treating her with the respect she deserves. Now, we both know how sweet Ava is.” As Mona nods in agreement, I try to keep the predator’s edge out of my grin as I add, “And we know what kind of man I am. So, please, as a favor to me… what did they say?”
I’ve known Mama Mona since I was four. She’s always treated me as her own, and when I found out she was being evicted from her shitty apartment through a landlord’s slimy loophole all because it was rent-controlled, I moved her in with me, giving her a job, and a second lease on life.
My mother kicked me out on my eighteenth birthday. I’d stopped thinking of her as any kind of maternal figure long before she did. That was all Mona.
Sometimes I think she still has some idyllic idea of who Lincoln Crewes is. Deep down, she has to know how I built my wealth, but she’s spent eight years pretending that she doesn’t.
As she wrings her hand together, looking from me to Ava and back, I’m sure she’s weighing how much to tell me.
That right there is a big clue that I’m not going to like it.
“Mona. Please.”
Her bottom lip trembles. “Oh, Mr. Lincoln. They think she’s… I can’t say it. It was so cruel.”
Cruel? “I still want to know.”
“Whore,” snaps my wife. “Happy? I heard one of them joke that you finally fell for one of the whores, okay? And they were looking right at me when I heard them talking about it.” She lets her own fork fall to her plate, covering her face with her hand. “It was humiliating.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Lincoln. I sent them away, and I was going to tell you—”
“But I told her not to,” Ava cuts in, speaking through the gaps in her fingers. “It’s not her fault they got the wrong idea about me.” She pauses, dropping her eyes to the table. “About us.”
No. It’s not Mona’s fault, is it?
It’s mine.
Ice floods my veins. I haven’t felt that sort of detachment since the fateful night when I hacked Skittery’s head off of his neck, but it hits me now as I realize just how oblivious I was in my happiness.
So damn pleased that I maneuvered Ava into being my wife, I was blind to how some of the men were treating her. Just because they got their kicks, getting close to the girls at the club, somehow they got the idea that Ava was one of them.
It’s my fucking fault. I didn’t make it clear enough after the altercation at the club. Those in my inner circle—my underboss, my counselors—they know she’s my wife. The soldiers just know she’s to be protected.
Lord knows rumors spread, too. I beat the shit out of a wallet for trying to bring Ava upstairs, so why wouldn’t some of the lower-ranked syndicate members get the idea that she was another one of the sex workers at the Playground.
But for her to hear them… for her to think that’s what she is to me… for my Ava to even doubt for one second that she’s the most important person in this world to me?
That she’s my goddamn wife?
It’s my fucking fault—but I’ll fix it. I’ll find out from Mona who exactly spoke about my wife like that in her hearing, and I’ll take care of them.
And that’s not all.
What do I have to prove that she’s mine?
Show those who are putting doubts in my Ava’s pretty little head that I’m hers.
