His Ruthless Claim (Devils in Armani Suits #2)

13. Luca

13

LUCA

I step into Skye's boutique at precisely 10:15, still unable to get rid of this itch that I feel to see her. The bell chimes above my head, but today the sound carries a different weight. I can feel it in the air.

She crosses to me, flipping the sign over to close the shop and locking the door. Her fingers slide the deadbolt into place with deliberate slowness, and I almost tease her about it being early for lunch. But I hardly remember how to make a joke so I stay silent.

When she turns, the usual playful smirk is gone, replaced by something sharper. More calculating. My pulse quickens - an involuntary response I immediately suppress.

"Luca." Her voice carries none of its usual teasing lilt, and still, the sound of my name on her tongue draws a visceral reaction from me. "You know…I gave you time to tell me who you are. But you never had any intention to, did you?"

My hand moves to my watch, but I force it back to my side. Instead of responding to a question I have no answer to, I say, "You've been doing your research."

"Had to know who was really spending thousands in my shop every week." She stalks toward me, heels clicking against hardwood. The shop's dim lighting catches the gold in her amber eyes. "Though I suspect the clothes were never the point."

I maintain my position, letting her circle me. The predator in me recognizes her movements, appreciates the calculated grace. "And what do you think the point was?"

"You tell me." She stops directly in front of me, close enough that I catch the subtle scent of her perfume. "Most men who want my attention just ask me to dinner. They don't spend a month pretending to build a wardrobe."

"I'm not most men." The words come out harder than intended.

"No." Her eyes rake over me, lingering on the places where designer fabric conceals carefully maintained muscle. "You're the kind who makes people disappear is what I hear."

I should walk away. Her knowledge makes her dangerous - to my control, to my carefully constructed walls. Instead, I find myself studying the curve of her neck, the defiant tilt of her chin. "Does that scare you?"

A laugh escapes her, low and rich. "If I was scared of dangerous men, I wouldn't have a shop three blocks from The Vault." She steps closer, completely fearless. "The question is - what scares you?"

My fingers twitch toward my watch again. For the first time in years, I don't have absolute control of my reactions.

"Nothing scares me." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.

Skye's fingers trail along a rack of designer suits, the same ones I've pretended interest in for weeks. "Your father's been making moves in the south side. Taking territory from the Buetis while their attention is split between the Cappallettis and that mess with Antonio." She pauses, watching my reaction. "Convenient timing."

Ice spreads through my veins. The casual way she drops this intelligence - information even some of our soldiers don't have - threatens my composure. I close the distance between us, backing her against the glass display case. "What exactly do you think you know?"

"Enough." She doesn't flinch at my proximity. If anything, her smile widens. "The Mantiones are expanding. But you're not moving with them, are you? Your operations stay carefully separate from daddy's."

My hand slams against the glass beside her head. The sharp crack echoes through the empty shop. Still, she doesn't startle. "You're playing a dangerous game."

"Says the man who's been circling my shop for months." Her finger traces the edge of my suit jacket. "You're not like them." She cocks her head and I've never felt watched like this. "The other Mantiones. They wear their violence like armor. You wear yours like a second skin."

"And what do you wear, Skye?" I lean closer, inhaling the subtle notes of her perfume. "Besides perfectly crafted neutrality?"

"Whatever suits my purposes." Her smile holds secrets I suddenly want to unravel. "But you already knew that. It's why you kept coming back."

She's right. I've watched her navigate Chicago's underworld with precise calculation, wielding information like currency. Each visit revealed another layer of her, and I only want more. What started as surveillance evolved into... something else. Something that makes my control slip.

Her fingertips dance across the glass counter, following the exact path where I set my watch during each visit. The deliberate motion draws my attention like a blade catching light.

"You always place it here." She taps the spot. "I've noticed that, too."

I step closer, crowding her space. Most people flinch away from my presence - an instinctive reaction to the violence that simmers beneath my skin. But Skye holds her ground, those amber eyes reflecting a challenge that makes my blood burn.

"And you always straighten the displays after I leave." My voice drops lower. "Everywhere I touched them."

A knowing smile plays at her lips. "Maybe I just like things in their proper place."

"No." I catch her wrist, feeling her pulse jump beneath my fingers. "You're tracing the little touches I left behind."

She tilts her chin up, fearless. "The same way you make sure to arrive at different times, park in different spots?" Her free hand slides up my chest, mapping the muscle hidden beneath Italian wool. "We all have our patterns, Luca. The trick is knowing which ones to break."

The sound of my name in her mouth ignites something primal this time - a surge of possessive hunger I haven't felt since before my mother's death. I want to consume her, learn every secret hidden behind that calculated smile.

"You're crossing a line no one does." My grip tightens on her wrist, not enough to hurt but enough to remind her of my strength.

"Am I?" Her fingers find my tie, tugging me closer. "Or am I just the first person to see past your perfect control?"

The words hit like a physical blow. I press her against the counter, caging her with my body. She's right - she sees too much, knows too much. The logical part of my brain screams to eliminate the threat.

Instead, I find myself memorizing the curve of her throat, the slight part of her lips. She represents everything I've trained myself to avoid - emotion, connection, weakness. Yet I can't stop the way my body responds to her proximity, the way my carefully constructed walls crack under her knowing gaze.

"You should leave." Her words lack conviction, fingers still twisted in my tie.

I should. Every calculated instinct screams to put distance between us. But my body remains caged around hers, drinking in details I've cataloged over weeks of observation - the precise arch of her brows, the way her pulse jumps beneath bronze skin, the dangerous intelligence behind those amber eyes.

"I know." I release her wrist but don't step back. The loss of contact leaves my fingers cold. "You're a liability."

"And you're a control freak who can't handle not having all the answers." Her smile turns sharp, knowing. "That's why you'll be back."

She's right. The realization settles like lead in my stomach. Ever since I saw her, I couldn't stay away. Worse - she let me continue, gathering her own intelligence while I thought I held the advantage.

"When I return-"

"Not if?" She smooths my tie, the gesture oddly intimate. "Careful, Mr. Mantione. Your mask is slipping."

The urge to grab her hand, to feel her pulse race beneath my fingers again, nearly overwhelms my control. Instead, I force myself to step back. The space between us feels wrong - too empty, too cold.

"Goodnight, Skye."

Her knowing smile follows me to the door. I don't look back as I step into Chicago's night, but my hands betray me. Instead of reaching for my watch - that familiar anchor of control - my fingers flex with phantom sensation. The memory of her skin, the heat of her body, the dangerous curves of her smile.

For the first time in fifteen years, the weight of my mother's watch feels foreign against my wrist. The metal no longer grounds me. Instead, my mind catalogs the exact texture of Skye's pulse, the precise shade of amber in her eyes, the calculated grace of her movements.

I've traded one obsession for another. The realization should terrify me. Instead, it burns like whiskey in my veins - dangerous, intoxicating, impossible to resist.