His Ruthless Claim (Devils in Armani Suits #2)

6. Skye

6

SKYE

T he silk blouse slips through my fingers as I adjust the neckline on the mannequin. Late afternoon sun streams through the boutique's front window, catching the delicate beadwork I've paired with this season's must-have pencil skirt. The display needs to be perfect - my customers expect nothing less.

A shift in energy ripples through the store. The usual murmur of shoppers browsing through racks falls silent, replaced by a heavy stillness that raises the hair on my neck. In the window's reflection, I watch him enter. Mr. Dangerous from the other night.

This suit is a Brioni, too, custom-fitted to broad shoulders and a lean frame that speaks of carefully controlled power. His movements are too fluid, too precise - a predator disguised in designer wool. I recognize him instantly from Vault, though his presence hits differently in the stark daylight of my boutique.

My fingers still on the mannequin's collar as customers part before him like water around a shark. No one makes eye contact. They busy themselves with phone screens or suddenly find the nearest rack fascinating. Smart people, reading the room.

I turn, my heels clicking against hardwood as I face him. His expression is carved from marble - beautiful but cold. Empty. It's the kind of blank that comes from practice, from needing to hide what lurks beneath. But his eyes... Those are alive with something that makes my pulse skip. Sharp and intent, they lock onto mine across the showroom floor.

The space between us crackles with unspoken tension. I noticed it yesterday, too, and even the night in the Vault. There's something there. Maybe it's attraction because as unnerving as he is, he is beautiful. Maybe it's a battle of wills we don't even need to verbally say.

I refuse to look away first, even as my instincts scream danger. This is my domain. I've built this place from nothing, carved out my own corner of Chicago's elite world. One man - no matter how dangerous - won't make me back down.

He takes another step forward, and I catch a whiff of expensive cologne mixed with something darker. Something that reminds me of gunpowder and secrets.

"Looking for anything specific?" I ask, keeping my voice steady despite the electric current running through my veins. He's close enough now that I catch the glint of a signet ring on his right hand.

"Business attire." His voice is low, controlled. Each word measured like ammunition.

I lead him toward our premium menswear section, hyperaware of his presence behind me. His footsteps are silent despite Italian leather shoes that cost more than most people's rent. The contrast sets off warning bells - men who can afford those shoes usually want everyone to hear them coming.

"These just came in." I gesture to a rack of suits, fighting to maintain my professional demeanor as he invades my space to examine the fabric. His movements are precise, calculated, like everything serves a purpose. No wasted motion. "The tailoring is impeccable."

He selects three suits without checking sizes or prices. The efficiency is unnerving - most clients spend ages debating colors and cuts. Not him. It's like watching a machine process data.

"The watch." The words slip out before I can stop them as he reaches for a fourth suit. The vintage Rolex on his wrist catches the light. "It's beautiful. Don't see many of those anymore."

His hand freezes mid-motion. For a fraction of a second, something raw and violent flashes across his face - gone so fast I almost doubt it was there. But in that instant, the temperature seems to drop ten degrees.

"It was my grandfather's." His tone is flat, but there's an edge underneath that raises goosebumps on my arms. "They do not make them anymore." His ice-blue eyes meet mine, and I glimpse something behind them that makes my breath catch - not emptiness, but carefully contained chaos.

I step back, a professional smile firmly in place. "I'll start a fitting room for you."

The moment breaks. His mask of indifference returns so seamlessly it's like it never slipped. But I felt it - that crack in his armor. And something tells me very few people live to see what lies beneath.

The bell above the door chimes as Cassie Cappalletti enters - Gucci bag swinging, wedding ring flashing. Her usual confidence evaporates mid-step. Her face drops when she spots him, leaving her stiff and wide-eyed.

I pretend to fold a stack of silk shirts, watching their reflection in the triple mirrors. She knows him. More importantly, she fears him. The way her throat works as she swallows, how her fingers clutch her purse strap until her knuckles are clenched - it's the instinctive terror of prey recognizing an apex predator.

He doesn't even look at her. Just continues examining the suits with that same mechanical precision, like she's less than the dust on his shoes. His dismissal somehow feels more threatening than any acknowledgment would have been.

Cassie backs toward the door, stilettos stumbling on the hardwood she usually glides across. The bell chimes again as she flees, leaving behind the scent of expensive perfume and raw fear.

I add this interaction to my mental catalog of Chicago's power players, filing it alongside whispered conversations at The Vault and the subtle shifts of influence I've witnessed over years of dressing the city's elite. The way she reacted... I've only seen that level of visceral fear once before.

Something about him tugs at my memory - a name mentioned in hushed tones from the other night maybe. But it slips away like smoke when I try to grasp it, leaving behind only the certainty that I'm playing with fire.

His reflection catches mine in the mirror. That icy gaze pins me in place, and I know he saw everything. Knew I was watching. The corner of his mouth ticks up - not quite a smile, but an acknowledgment that sends shivers down my spine.

I force myself to keep folding, even as my skin prickles under his attention. The silk slides cool between my fingers, such a contrast to the heat building in my veins.

But if Mr. Dangerous wants something, he's going to have to ask for it.

"I'll take these," he says, coming up far too close behind me when I don't look up at him. It's like he's testing me, and I'm not sure if I'm passing or failing.

"Great." I turn, tipping my head up to look at him. I'm tall for a woman and still, he's leaning over me, those eyes boring into mine. "I'll ring you."

I step away from him, feeling the loss acutely, but my lungs can breathe again. Being too close to him felt like I was stuck in his orbit, my gravity reorienting until all I could focus on was him.

Wow, this guy is fucking with my head.

Slipping behind the safety of the counter, the silk tissue paper whispers as I wrap each suit with practiced precision. Most clients this wealthy have their purchases delivered, but he insists on taking them now. His stare burns into my hands as I work, tracking every fold and crease like he's memorizing my movements.

"Would you like these in separate bags?" I keep my voice professional despite the electricity crackling through my veins. The question hangs between us, unanswered.

His fingers drum once against the glass counter. The rhythm draws my attention to his hands - elegant but scarred across the knuckles. A fighter's hands wrapped in a businessman's manicure.

"One is fine." The words drop like ice cubes into still water.

I nod, reaching for our largest shopping bag. The total flashes on the register screen - enough to cover three months of rent for my first apartment. He doesn't even glance at it, just slides a black card across the counter.

Most of my high-end clients project danger like a fashion statement, carefully cultivated to match their Italian leather and Swiss watches. But his runs deeper, colder. It's in the mechanical way he moves, the absolute stillness between breaths. Like someone reached inside and scooped out whatever makes people human, leaving behind only sharp edges and empty space.

His eyes catch mine as I return his card. Blue as arctic ice, but there's nothing frozen about the way they strip me bare, analyzing and cataloging every micro-expression. I've seen predators before - Chicago's underworld shops here often enough - but they all burn hot with barely contained violence. He's different. Clinical. As if violence is just another tool, no more emotional than choosing a tie.

The receipt prints with a soft whir. When I look up, he's closer than before, though I never saw him move. That expensive cologne fills my lungs, making my head spin. My fingers brush his as I hand over the bag, and electricity arcs between us. His eyes darken a fraction - and I'm almost stunned by it. Everything about him is subtle, but this is unmistakable.

For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The air feels thick, charged with something dangerous and magnetic. Then his lips curve into what might be a smile on anyone else, but on him looks more like a weapon being drawn.

I stare at the door long after he leaves, my heart still racing beneath my silk blouse. The store feels colder without his presence, though that makes no sense. My fingers tremble as I count the stack of hundreds he insisted on using instead of the card for his final purchase - a silk tie he'd added at the last second.

The spot where his watch rested on the counter draws my attention like a magnet. I trace my fingertips over the glass, remembering how the vintage Rolex had caught the light. That brief flash of something raw in his eyes when I'd mentioned it haunts me. For that split second, he'd been human. Dangerous, lethal even, but human.

"Get it together, Skye," I mutter, forcing myself to step back from the counter. But my body betrays me, skin still tingling where his fingers brushed mine.

I've served dangerous men before. Chicago's elite shop here regularly - mobsters, corrupt politicians, dirty cops. I know better than to let them affect me. But he was different. The others wear their violence like designer labels, proud and obvious. His runs deeper, colder. More refined. Like glacier ice that looks beautiful until you realize how easily it could kill you.

Those eyes though... Arctic blue and empty one moment, burning with intensity the next. The way they stripped me bare, analyzing every micro-expression. No one's ever looked at me like that - like I'm a puzzle they want to take apart piece by piece.

I shake my head, grabbing my tablet to update inventory. I can't afford these thoughts. Men like him don't just break hearts - they shatter lives. The way Mrs. Cappalletti reacted proved that. Besides, he was practically mechanical. A beautiful machine wrapped in luxury suits, moving with lethal precision.

But my traitor mind keeps drifting back to that moment when our fingers touched. The electricity that arced between us. The way his eyes darkened, that perfect control slipping for just a heartbeat.

My hands are still shaking.