His Ruthless Claim (Devils in Armani Suits #2)

14. Skye

14

SKYE

I adjust the silk Valentino dress on the mannequin, my fingers smoothing over the delicate fabric. Through the boutique's floor-to-ceiling windows, I catch another glimpse of Mickey - one of Luca's soldiers that I coerced into talking to me - pacing past for the third time this hour. His dark suit and rigid posture stick out among the usual Fashion Week crowd.

The bell chimes as Sophia Russo enters, her Louboutins clicking against the marble floor. Wife of a Mantione capo. She never shopped here before last week.

"Skye, darling." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes as she air-kisses my cheeks. "I simply must see that McQueen blazer you posted."

I lead her to our new arrivals, hyperaware of how her gaze keeps sliding to me rather than the clothes. The whispers started days ago - about the ice prince's new fascination. About me. I'm not sure what happened, but it seems to be slowly leaking through the city.

"Perfect choice for the casino opening," I say, holding up the blazer. "The structured shoulders will photograph beautifully."

"You'll be there, won't you?" She runs manicured fingers over the embellished lapel. "I heard Luca has his eye on you."

The way she emphasizes his name makes my spine stiffen. I maintain my professional smile. "Fashion Week keeps me quite busy."

Two more wives drift in - both from prominent Mantione-connected families. They browse the racks with practiced nonchalance, but their sharp glances tell me they're here to assess more than merchandise.

I direct my assistant - the temporary help I've hired for the busy week - to bring out champagne - a boutique tradition during Fashion Week. But now it feels like a chess move in a game I'm still learning to play. Outside, another of Luca's men takes up position across the street.

The weight of unspoken power dynamics fills my store like expensive perfume. These women's cautious respect, their calculating observation - it all traces back to him. To whatever this thing is between us that I can't seem to resist, even knowing it's changing everything.

The bell chimes again and a made man swaggers in, all Italian charm in his tailored Armani. I don't recognize him, but I can instantly tell he's a soldier who thinks too highly of himself. His dark eyes scan the boutique before landing on me.

"Ladies." He nods to the wives, who return varying degrees of acknowledgment.

Sophia's perfectly lined lips curl. "Shouldn't you be working, Rocco? I doubt my husband would appreciate knowing you're shopping during business hours."

"Just admiring the view." He props himself against my counter, loosening his tie. "How's business, bella ?"

I arrange a display of Gucci scarves, keeping my movements deliberate. "Fashion Week is always good for sales."

He nods. "Looking busy, though. Maybe you need a little break? You should come by The Block tonight. I'll buy you a drink."

"Rocco." Sophia's voice carries the sharp edge of authority that comes from years of marriage to a capo. "You're supposed to be handling collections today."

He waves her off, still focused on me. "One drink. Promise I'll make it worth your while."

I've played this game before - maintaining the delicate balance between not offending made men while keeping clear boundaries. "Sweet offer, but I'm fully booked this week. The spring collection launch requires my complete attention."

"Come on, live a little." His fingers drum against the glass counter. "Pretty thing like you shouldn't work so hard."

The door opens again and the temperature seems to drop ten degrees. Mickey steps inside, his presence filling the space with unspoken threat. His eyes lock onto Rocco.

"The boss needs you. Now."

Rocco straightens, cockiness evaporating. Everyone knows 'the boss' means Luca these days. He adjusts his tie, trying to salvage his dignity. "Some other time then, bella ."

I don't reply, just focus on perfectly arranging a silk scarf while Rocco lingers, his eyes still on me. Mickey takes a step closer, and I see the wives exchange meaningful glances. They've noticed - of course they have. In their world, nothing happens by accident.

The boutique's bell chimes again before Mickey can make a move. My breath catches as I look over to see Luca filling the doorway, his presence commanding attention without effort. His ice-blue eyes scan the space before landing on me with predatory focus. The wives fall silent, their earlier boldness evaporating.

He moves with lethal grace, his Italian suit fitting him like armor. No unnecessary movements, no wasted energy. Just pure, controlled power as he approaches where Rocco still lingers.

"I believe Mickey delivered a message." Luca's voice carries that distinctive emptiness - not angry, not threatening, just... void. It's more unnerving than shouting could ever be.

Rocco's swagger dissolves. "I was just leaving-"

"Were you?" Luca adjusts his silver Rolex with precise movements. "Because it looked like you were harassing Miss Calloway."

"No, I didn't mean-"

"Go to the construction site." Luca doesn't raise his voice, doesn't change his eerily calm expression. Yet Rocco pales. "Now."

I watch, fascinated, as Rocco practically trips over himself to leave. The wives make hasty excuses and follow suit, leaving me alone with Luca and the lingering scent of fear.

His gaze slides back to me, intense enough to burn. Most people would be terrified to be the sole focus of his attention. Instead, I feel a dangerous thrill.

"You didn't have to do that." I straighten a row of hangers, keeping my movements casual. "I can handle unwanted attention."

"I'm aware." His eyes track my movements. "But his disrespect reflects poorly on all of us."

"Is that the only reason?" I can't help pushing, trying to crack that perfect control. It's probably stupid - definitely dangerous - but something about him makes me want to see what's beneath that empty mask.

The corner of his mouth twitches - the barest hint of expression that vanishes so quickly I almost think I imagined it. "You ask dangerous questions, Miss Calloway."

"Someone has to." I meet his gaze directly. "Everyone else seems too scared to try."

He steps closer. "Maybe for good reason."

I flick my eyes up and down his body. And as usual, I'm too tempted to push him to hold back. "Well, you handled it. So, you can go now. I don't need you in here, interrupting my business whenever you want." I move behind the counter, needing the physical barrier between us. "I have legitimate customers to attend to."

He stalks closer, each step measured and purposeful. Most people would call his expression blank, but I've learned to read the micro-shifts - the slight tightening around his eyes, the barely-there tension in his jaw. He's amused. And something else.

"Oh, I can go?" His voice carries that signature emptiness, but there's a dark edge underneath that makes heat pool in my stomach. He places his hands on the glass counter, boxing me in without touching me. "You seem to be operating under a misconception, Miss Calloway."

I grip the edge of the counter behind me, willing my voice to stay steady. "And what's that?"

"I don't take orders. That there's any part of this city that isn't my world." His ice-blue eyes pin me in place. "Including you."

The possessive declaration should infuriate me. Should make me want to prove him wrong. Instead, my pulse quickens as he leans closer, his cologne - something expensive and distinctly him - filling my senses.

"I'm not one of your soldiers, Luca." But the protest sounds weak even to my ears.

"No." His gaze drops to my lips for a fraction of a second - so quick I might have missed it if I wasn't hyper-focused on his every move. "You're something far more interesting."

The air between us crackles with tension. I should argue. Should tell him that my boutique and my life aren't his to claim. But the words die in my throat as I catch another micro-expression - a flash of something almost hungry in those usually empty eyes.

His thumb brushes my hand where it rests on the counter - the barest whisper of contact that feels like electricity. "You're part of my world now, Skye. The sooner you accept that, the easier things will be."

I don't argue. Can't argue. Not when every cell in my body hums with awareness of him, even as my mind screams that this - whatever this is - can only end in disaster.

And then, he turns on his heel and leaves. My entire body aches with longing at the loss of him, and I stay standing there, staring after him for far too long.

I try to get back to work, but my eyes keep darting to the two men stationed across the street. They don't try to hide - Luca's soldiers never do. Their presence marks his territory as clearly as a branded signature.

I should feel caged. Trapped. Instead, something electric burns under my skin at the knowledge that I've caught the attention of such a dangerous man. The man who can silence a room without raising his voice. Who commands respect through carefully crafted emptiness rather than brute force.

Even long after he leaves, I can still feel the tension between us as he boxed me in. How I saw that flicker of emotion in his eyes. The way his control slipped, just for a heartbeat.

The women around me try to pull me into their gossip - thinly veiled attempts to gauge my connection to their prince. They don't understand. I'm not after his power or his name. I want to unravel the enigma of him. To learn why he maintains such rigid control, why he watches me like I'm a puzzle he needs to solve.

I'm playing with fire, and I know it. But there's something intoxicating about being the only person who makes him react, who draws genuine interest from those usually empty eyes. Not despite his dangerous reputation, but because of how naturally he wears it - like the perfectly tailored suits that can't quite hide the lethal grace beneath.