His Ruthless Claim (Devils in Armani Suits #2)

3. Luca

3

LUCA

I tap my fingers against the leather steering wheel, eyes fixed on the storefront across the street where two of my men conduct their meeting, looking casual as can be. The silver Rolex on my wrist catches the afternoon sun - a reminder to keep this quick. Time is money, and I don't waste either.

The new crew could prove useful for when I take over, if they can follow simple instructions. So far their numbers check out, but numbers lie. People lie more.

Movement in a boutique window draws my attention. A woman reaches up, adjusting a mannequin's collar with precise, deliberate motions. Her sleek black hair falls in waves down her back, complementing brown skin that seems to glow under the boutique's soft lighting and the sun streaming in. Each adjustment she makes is calculated, purposeful - from the tilt of the mannequin's head to the drape of fabric across its frame.

She steps back, head cocked to one side, studying her work with an intensity that mirrors my own when assessing a target. There's power in her stance, authority in the way she commands her space. This isn't some shop girl following corporate instructions. She owns this place, owns every decision she makes.

My chest tightens. An unfamiliar sensation I immediately want to suppress. I haven't felt this spark of... interest... since before the accident. Before I learned that feelings are weaknesses waiting to be exploited.

She turns slightly, and I catch her profile - high cheekbones, full lips curved in concentration. A small diamond catches the light at her nose.

She is beautiful . Staring at her has changed the meaning of the word for me because I have never seen anyone who looks…like she does. Like I must have fucking died all those years ago.

That's the only way I'd be able to see a woman who has to be an angel.

"Fuck." The word escapes before I can stop it. I grip the steering wheel harder, forcing my breathing to remain steady. Control is everything. Control is survival. Yet something about the way she moves, the confidence in her bearing, threatens to crack the walls I've built.

My phone buzzes - an update from my men inside. I should check it. Instead, I watch her hands smooth down the front of her dress, wondering how those same hands would feel against my skin.

This is dangerous. Distracting. I need to focus on business, on maintaining the empire I've built. But my eyes refuse to leave her figure as she makes one final adjustment to the display.

The phone screen illuminates with messages about the crew and our upcoming plans. Critical information I need to process. Instead, my attention drifts back to the boutique window where she's greeting a customer with a smile that transforms her entire face. The expression hits me like a physical blow - genuine warmth radiating from those amber eyes.

My fingers trace the edge of my mother's watch, an unconscious tell I need to break. The silver band feels cool against my skin, grounding me as memories threaten to surface. I haven't thought about my mother's smile in years. Haven't allowed myself to remember how it felt to be on the receiving end of that kind of genuine emotion.

"Boss?" Tony's voice crackles through my earpiece. "The numbers from the new crew-"

"Send them to my phone." My voice comes out harder than intended. I adjust my tone to something more controlled. "I'll review them later."

The boutique owner leans in close to her customer, pointing out details on a silk blazer with elegant gestures. There's authority in her movements, confidence in the way she commands the space. But it's different from the cold power I wield. She draws people in while I push them away.

The watch weighs heavy on my wrist. A reminder of weakness, of what happens when you let emotions cloud judgment. Yet I can't tear my eyes from the way she moves through her domain, how she builds connections with subtle touches and warm smiles.

My jaw clenches. This fascination is becoming a liability. I need to focus on gaining more support while my father's influence wanes, on solidifying my position before the other families realize how much power is shifting. I don't have time for distractions.

But when she throws her head back in genuine laughter at something her customer said, the sound carrying faintly through my cracked window, my grip on the steering wheel tightens until my knuckles turn white.

A tap on the window has me jerking my head to the side where Bas is standing. His eyes dart between me and the boutique, curiosity etched across his features as he climbs into the passenger seat.

"Something wrong with that shop, boss? Want me to have someone check it out?"

Ice spreads through my veins. The question hangs between us, sharp and dangerous. My fingers still against the steering wheel as I turn to face him. His adam's apple bobs under my stare.

"Are you suggesting I need your input on where I choose to look?" The words come out soft, measured. The kind of quiet that makes smart men run.

Bas's face drains of color. "No, I just thought-"

"That's the problem." I lean back, adjusting my sleeve. The watch glints - a warning. "You're thinking when you should be focusing on your assignment. Which clearly isn't challenging enough if you have time to monitor my interests."

He stammers an apology, but the damage is done. The fact that he noticed - that anyone noticed - is unacceptable. If he was anyone else, I'd have him killed. Luckily, Bas knows how to keep his mouth shut - so he can keep his life.

My attention drifts back to the boutique despite myself. The woman has moved to the register, her fingers flying across the iPad as she processes her customer's purchase. And yet, even now she holds my interest.

Interests. The word echoes in my mind, foreign and uncomfortable. When was the last time something caught my attention that wasn't related to business or power? The closest I've come is the satisfaction of a well-executed plan, the cold pleasure of watching competitors fall.

Yet here I am, tracking the movement of her hands, cataloging the way her silk dress clings to curves that belong in a Renaissance painting. The urge to know more about her burns like whiskey in my throat.

This won't do. Control requires distance. Distance requires detachment. I've built my empire on these principles, carved my name into Chicago's underworld by being the man who feels nothing.

Mickey and Ace hop in the back seat, ready to talk about the meeting. I see Bas turn out of the corner of my eye, giving them a subtle head shake.

"You know, Bas?" I look at him and his face goes pale. I wonder if one look from me would have her looking so scared. Something tells me that's not the case. "Get me the information on that boutique after all."

"You got it, boss."

I know they are all waiting for me to drive, but I have no intention of leaving. Not yet. Instead, I look forward as I tell him, in a calm voice so quiet that I know it's intimidating, "Now."

Bas is out of the car and taking off before I draw my neck breath. See? Smart guy.

"You two handle surveillance. I want you monitoring the street, see if the crew is lying. Stay in this area for the rest of the day."

Then they are both gone, too. Leaving me alone, where my control starts to slip. Again.

Through tinted windows, I watch her routine unfold as the sun dips below Chicago's skyline. She moves with practiced efficiency, but there's an edge to her movements that speaks of street smarts beneath the designer exterior. Her head turns at calculated intervals, amber eyes scanning the darkening street before she continues her closing duties.

She's no stranger to danger. The way she positions herself - always maintaining clear sightlines to exits and streets - tells me she's learned the hard way about this neighborhood's reputation. Smart woman. This area might be gentrifying, but old blood still runs through these streets. My blood.

The last customer leaves, and she locks the door with one smooth motion, never fully turning her back to the street. I'm curious if she's noticed Mickey and Ace outside all day.

My phone vibrates. Bas' preliminary report. I scan it without taking my eyes off her figure as she moves through the shop, turning off displays. Skye Calloway. The name fits her - untouchable, elevated above the grime of this city. But she's built something here, carved out her own territory with determination that rivals any made man's.

I don't want to spook her, nor do I want to approach her. I'm not really sure what it is I'm doing, wasting half a day just watching her. But before she can come out, I send a message to Ace, telling them to get lost. They leave just as the door swings open.

Security system armed and designer bag clutched close to her body, Skye steps outside. She locks the door and then starts in the opposite direction. Her heels click against concrete - purposeful strides that eat up distance without sacrificing awareness. No fumbling for keys, no distracted phone checks. She knows better.

I follow her path through my side mirror, tracking the sway of her hips, the confident set of her shoulders. Everything about her screams self-made success, but with an edge sharp enough to draw blood. My kind of dangerous.

I don't even think as I step out of my car. The pull to her has me acting without thought, has something that feels too much like emotion rolling through me. I want to follow her, to continue to watch her, to know everything.

It's a practice of extreme control that I let her keep walking away.

The click of her heels grows distant. I roll my shoulders, adjusting my suit jacket. The night air carries traces of her perfume - something expensive but not overwhelming. Like everything else about her, it's a deliberate choice.

She rounds the corner ahead, but not before throwing a glance over her shoulder. Our eyes lock. Even from this distance, I catch the flash of her amber eyes taking me. Her step falters - barely noticeable, but enough.

She doesn't run. Doesn't speed up. Just maintains her measured pace as she disappears around the corner, leaving me standing in the pool of a streetlight with my hands clenched at my sides.

The urge to follow hits like a physical blow. My feet want to move, to track her movement through these familiar streets. I haven't felt this pull since... ever. The loss of control burns in my chest, foreign and unwelcome.

My watch ticks steadily, counting seconds as I war with this new compulsion. I'm Luca fucking Mantione. I don't chase women. I don't feel this desperate need to know where they're going, what they're thinking.

But her knowing look replays in my mind. The way her lips curved slightly before she turned away. Like she knew exactly what effect she had on me and found it amusing.

The muscle in my jaw ticks. Nobody laughs at me. Nobody walks away without my permission. Yet here I stand, fighting the magnetic pull of her disappearing figure while my carefully maintained control crumbles like wet paper.