His Ruthless Claim (Devils in Armani Suits #2)

8. Skye

8

SKYE

T he bell chimes as he enters my boutique, right on schedule - if you can call his deliberately irregular visits a schedule. Three weeks of watching this man browse my store like he's conducting surveillance rather than shopping has taught me his patterns. Today it's 12:47 PM. Last time it was 11:13 AM. Before that, 4:29 PM.

My handsome stranger moves with predatory grace between the racks of designer clothes, his expensive suit a perfect complement to his lean frame. Those ice-blue eyes scan each item with surgical precision, like he's cataloging evidence rather than appreciating fashion.

"Let me guess - another gift for your girlfriend?" I lean against the counter, unable to resist poking at his stoic demeanor. Now that I'm growing accustomed to his presence - and his gorgeous features - I want to see if I can stir up any emotion besides the subtle hints I've seen in his eyes. The guy has to smile, right?

His purchases follow the same calculated pattern as his visits - never the same type of item, but always expensive, always perfect.

His gaze flicks to mine. "I don't have a girlfriend."

"Boyfriend?" I arch an eyebrow.

Not even a twitch. "No."

"Just collecting clothing for fun then?" His purchases have started to move into women's clothes, asking me my favorite pieces.

"Business associates." He runs his fingers along a silk blouse. "It's important to maintain certain relationships."

"With designer clothes?" I move closer, catching a whiff of his cologne - something expensive and subtle. "Most guys just go with a fruit basket."

"Fruit spoils." His voice remains perfectly even, but something shifts in those empty eyes. "Designer items maintain their value."

"You really know how to sweet-talk a girl, don't you?" I reach past him to straighten a hanger, deliberately invading his space. Most men either back away or lean in. He does neither, holding his position with unnatural stillness.

"That's not my intention."

"No?" I meet his gaze. "Then what is your intention?"

Tell me why you keep coming in here.

He's never hit on me. Never told me who he is. And I'm letting him keep me in limbo because I don't want to know. That would mean knowing too much - and that is against my policy.

If I don't actually know who he is, I don't have to worry about how often he is around me.

For a fraction of a second, something dangerous flickers across his face. "To conduct business efficiently."

"You know, most of my customers actually smile occasionally. You should try it sometime - your face won't crack."

His expression doesn't change, but his eyes narrow slightly. "I'll take the Valentino dress. Size four."

I study him for a minute before giving him a bright smile. "Of course."

His eyes follow me the whole time as I select the dress, a beautiful one that I love, and head to the counter. He leans on it, his watch resting against the glass like always, as I pack it up and he takes it away.

I try not to let myself feel disappointed with how short the visit was today as I lock up and head out to meet the girls for lunch. But it sticks with me after I've already slid into my seat and I forget to even listen to the conversation.

"Seriously, who needs seven different types of flowers?" Kendra stabs her fork into her salad. "My cousin's gone full bridezilla. Yesterday she called me crying about napkin colors. Napkins!"

We're crowded around our usual corner table at Misty's coffee shop, the lunch rush thinning out around us. Jazz picks at her sandwich, dark circles under her eyes betraying her exhaustion despite her immaculate makeup.

"At least she's not making you wear lime green." Mikayla wrinkles her nose. "My sister's wedding? The dresses looked like radioactive waste."

I stir my iced coffee, the ice cubes clinking against glass. My mind keeps drifting to those calculated movements through my store, the way he examines everything like he's memorizing evidence.

"Earth to Skye." Jazz waves her hand in front of my face. "You're quiet today."

"Just tired." I force a smile. "Business has been...interesting lately."

"Speaking of interesting." Kendra leans forward. "What's going on at the Vault? There was extra security when I came by earlier. I had to demand they get Marco just to get in."

Jazz's shoulders tense slightly. "Just some tension with the Mantiones. Nothing major." She takes a sip of water. "So Mikayla, how's that new cold brew blend working out?"

Mantione. The name hits me like a punch to the gut. I've seen it in the papers, heard whispers around the neighborhood. The family that runs half of Chicago's underworld with calculated precision. And they are cropping up more and more…

Like the night I saw the blue-eyed stranger at The Vault.

"They are Mantione, " Jazz had said when I saw some guys walk in. But what if… What if he is, too?

He's obviously a made man. Those empty blue eyes that catalog everything, giving nothing away. The perfect suits that cost more than most people's monthly rent. The way he moves through my store like he owns it - like he owns everything.

But with the wealth that he shows and the way he acts, he has to be a whole more than a soldier or even an enforcer. He has to be someone important.

"You okay?" Mikayla touches my arm. "You don't look so good."

"Fine." I force myself to focus on their conversation, but my mind keeps circling back to him. To the danger that radiates off him in waves, even when he's just examining a silk blouse.

I should have known. Should have recognized the name, the power, the control. But he's nothing like the loud, flashy mobsters who sometimes frequent my store. He's something else entirely. Something worse.

I'm sure he's a made man but a Mantione? Aren't they…crazy? I've heard how Jazz talks about them. I know what they did to her. Surely, he can't be.

Then again…I think about how utterly emotionless he is. It's the opposite of the explosive anger I've heard of but no less unnerving.

But then I think about the other day… when Mrs. Romano waddled in, dripping in her usual excess of diamonds. She was mid-rant on her phone about some charity auction when she spotted Mr. Dangerous examining a row of evening gowns.

Her voice died mid-sentence. The phone slipped from her manicured fingers, clattering to the marble floor.

"Oh," she breathed, her usual haughty demeanor evaporating. "I didn't expect- I mean, I can come back later-"

He didn't even look at her, just continued his methodical assessment of the dresses. "That won't be necessary."

Mrs. Romano - who once demanded I close the store for her private shopping session - backed away like she's facing a cobra. Her shoulders hunched, making her designer blazer bunch awkwardly. "Of course, of course. I'll just..."

She practically sprinted out the door, leaving her phone behind.

And it wasn't an isolated incident. I've watched socialites who normally snap their fingers for service dive into racks to avoid his path. Even Victoria Chen, who once threatened to sue me over a shipping delay, goes pale and quiet when he's around.

But him? He barely seems to register their existence. Those ice-blue eyes slide past them like they're furniture, his perfect posture never wavering. While they scurry and simper, he maintains that unnaturally still presence, like a statue carved from expensive Italian marble.

It should repel me - this cold power that makes strong women crumble. Instead, I find myself watching him more closely, cataloging the minute shifts in his expression, the careful precision of his movements. There's something fascinating about the contrast between his beautiful exterior and whatever darkness lurks beneath.

"Okay, spill." Mikayla leans across the table. "You've been staring into space for ten minutes. What's going on in that head of yours?"

I trace the condensation on my glass, debating how much to share. "Remember that guy you all teased me about at The Vault two weeks ago? The one in the custom Brioni suit?"

"The hot scary one?" Kendra perks up. "Girl, did something happen?"

"He's been coming to my store. Like clockwork, but never at the same time." I glance at Jazz, whose fingers have gone white around her water glass. "He buys expensive gifts for himself or 'business associates.' Usually women's items, always perfect taste."

"And you're into him." Mikayla grins.

"I'm... intrigued." I choose my words carefully. "He moves like he owns everything he sees. And the way other people react to him - there are some very powerful women practically running out my store to get away from him."

Jazz sets her glass down with a sharp click. "Some men aren't meant to be intrigued by, Skye. They're meant to be avoided."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means..." She presses her lips together. "Just trust me. That kind of man? He's dangerous. Not the fun kind of dangerous. The real kind."

"You know who he is." The pieces click into place - her tension, the warnings.

"I…have an idea." Her dark eyes meet mine, pleading. "Please. Find someone else to be intrigued by."

But her warning has the opposite effect. If Jazz, who deals with Chicago's underbelly every night at The Vault, is this concerned... "He's not just some rich guy buying gifts, is he?"

"Skye." Jazz's voice drops. "Drop it. Please."

I sit back, mind racing. The way he examines everything like he's hunting. The carefully maintained distance. The pure fear in people's eyes when they spot him.

"I should get back to the store." I gather my things, ignoring the worried looks my friends exchange. "New shipment coming in."

"Skye-" Jazz starts.

"I hear you." I force a smile. "Really. I'll be careful."

I could ask her to tell me and she would. But I…don't want to know. I'm not ready. I like my limbo and the way I can cling to my deniability.

As I walk away, all I can think about are those ice-blue eyes and the darkness that lurks behind them.

I unlock the boutique's front door, flipping the sign back to "Open." The quiet space feels different now - charged somehow, like the air before a storm. My fingers trail along a rack of designer dresses, straightening items that don't need straightening.

I catch myself watching the door and force my attention to the new shipment boxes. But even as I slice through packing tape and sort through tissue paper, my mind catalogs his patterns. The way he checks that antique silver watch before entering - right hand, two fingers brushing the face, a quarter turn of his wrist. The perfectly measured steps that carry him through my carefully curated displays.

That one time I mentioned the watch looked like a family piece, his fingers had tightened imperceptibly around the strap. For just a heartbeat, something raw and dangerous had flickered behind those arctic eyes before the mask slammed back into place.

The bell chimes. My heart jumps, but it's just Mrs. Peterson browsing scarves. I help her select a Hermès piece, all while wondering when I started categorizing my customers as "him" and "not him."

Jazz's warning echoes in my head. She's right - this fascination is playing with fire. I've seen how people react to him, watched them scatter like prey animals when he enters a room. The way his presence turns successful, powerful women into stammering messes.

But that's part of what draws me in. He never raises his voice, never makes explicit threats. He simply exists with such complete control that the world bends around him. While others flee, I find myself wanting to step closer, to see what happens when someone pushes back against that icy exterior.

The register dings as I finish Mrs. Peterson's transaction. 3:47 PM. My eyes drift to the door again, remembering how he always arrives at odd minutes - 2:47, 11:13, 4:29. Never on the hour or half-hour like a normal person would choose. Another calculated move, like everything else about him.

I should be scared. Should listen to Jazz and stay far away from whatever darkness lurks behind that expensive suit and those empty eyes. Instead, I'm counting minutes, anticipating that familiar silhouette through the glass, wondering what new patterns I'll discover today.