His Ruthless Claim (Devils in Armani Suits #2)

16. Skye

16

SKYE

T he bell above my boutique door chimes at 6:45 PM. I've been closed for nearly an hour, but I had inventory to do. I don't need to look up from reorganizing my display of vintage Chanel bags to know who it is - only one person would dare enter uninvited at this hour.

Besides, I can feel the energy coming off him. Something about my body is so in tune with him.

"We're closed." I continue adjusting the angle of a classic black quilted clutch.

"That's the problem." Luca's Italian-tinged voice cuts through the silence. His footsteps are silent on the polished concrete floor, but I feel him drawing closer. "Your security is nonexistent."

I turn, keeping my movements unhurried. He towers over me in a charcoal suit that probably costs more than my monthly rent. His ice blue eyes scan the store with surgical precision.

"I have an alarm system." Not to mention he has guys outside.

"Which didn't stop me from walking right in." His perfectly styled dark hair doesn't move when he tilts his head. "Or the wives of three different crime families who were here this afternoon."

I cross my arms. "You're keeping tabs on my customers now?"

"When they belong to the Romanovs, Chen syndicate, and O'Malleys? Yes." No inflection in his voice, just cold facts. "You're positioning yourself in the crossfire of several dangerous organizations."

"I'm running a business. My customers' affiliations aren't my concern."

He steps closer, and despite myself, my breath catches. The predatory grace in his movements sends a shiver down my spine that isn't entirely fear.

"Your naivety will get you killed." His words are clipped. "You need protection."

"I don't need anything, especially not from you." I lift my chin, meeting that empty gaze. "I've managed fine on my own."

His hand moves to the silver Rolex on his wrist, fingers gripping it with unusual tension. For a fraction of a second, something flickers in those cold eyes—pain, maybe fear. It vanishes so quickly I almost think I imagined it, but the way his knuckles whiten around the watch tells me otherwise.

"Managing isn't enough." His voice drops lower, an edge I've never heard before creeping in. "Not when you're caught between—" He stops, jaw clenching as he forces whatever emotion tries to surface back into its cage. He sighs then. "You're going to fight me on this, aren't you?"

I flash him a smile. He blinks slowly, almost like he's surprised. I'm sure as a don, especially one as feared as him, he is thrown off by my reaction. Good. "It's what I'm good at."

He drags a hand down his face and turns, heading for the door. "We're not done talking about this."

I'm certain we are.

But then the next morning, I'm arranging a new shipment of Versace when heavy footsteps thunder through my boutique. A burly man in an ill-fitting suit barrels past the entrance, knocking over a rack of silk dresses. The metallic clang of hangers hitting the hard floor makes me wince.

"You think you can serve our competition?" His meaty hand clamps around my forearm. His breath reeks of cigarettes and cheap scotch. "The O'Malleys don't take kindly to that kind of disrespect."

I try to wrench free but his grip tightens. "Take your hands off me."

"Or what?" He yanks me closer. "Your fancy dresses gonna protect you?"

The boutique door opens. Two men in tailored black suits step inside, moving with lethal grace. The first one - Mickey, I recognize him from Luca's crew - strikes like a cobra. In one fluid motion, he breaks the man's hold on my arm and twists it behind his back.

The second guard sweeps the O'Malley soldier's legs out from under him. They drag him toward the back room with practiced efficiency, as if taking out the trash.

My other customers barely glance up from browsing. Mrs. Chen continues examining a Gucci bag while her bodyguard shifts slightly to block her view. The teenage daughter of the Romanov underboss just turns up her music, bobbing her head to whatever's playing through her AirPods.

The boutique door slams open. Luca fills the entrance, his tall frame casting a shadow across my scattered designer pieces. His ice blue eyes lock onto mine, and the temperature in the room drops ten degrees. That perfect mask of indifference cracks - just slightly - as his gaze sweeps over me, cataloging every detail for injury.

His fingers twist around his watch, the only tell that betrays the rage simmering beneath that controlled exterior. Two steps bring him to me, each movement precise and lethal. The expensive fabric of his suit pulls across broad shoulders as he reaches out, tilting my chin up with one finger.

"Are you hurt?" The words come out clipped, measured.

"I'm fine." I resist the urge to lean into his touch. "Though my new Versace collection isn't."

His jaw tightens. Behind him, muffled thuds and a sharp cry echo from the back room where his men are no doubt teaching the O'Malley thug some manners. Luca doesn't even blink at the sound.

"This is what I warned you about." His thumb traces along my jawline, the gesture possessive rather than comforting. "You aren't safe."

I meet his gaze, refusing to be cowed by the darkness I see there. "Good thing I got your friends here to protect me then."

Something flashes in those empty eyes - hunger, perhaps. Or warning. His fingers slide into my hair, gripping just tight enough to let me know he's serious, but I want more. I shouldn't, but I want so much from him when I need to walk away. The gesture is commanding, almost primitive, at odds with his usual calculating demeanor.

"I'll get more guys here. But you need to rethink who you are letting in here." His voice drops lower, rough with something that isn't quite threat and isn't quite promise.

"Guys like you?"

I swear a ghost of a smile breezes over his lips. "Exactly."

I tip my chin up. "Put guys and cameras on the streets, but don't mess with my business. I can handle myself."

Around us, my customers pretend to shop, their whispered conversations creating a backdrop of nervous energy. But I barely notice them. All I can focus on is the way Luca's hand is still buried in my hair while his eyes devour me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

"We'll discuss this later." Luca's fingers untangle from my hair with deliberate slowness. His eyes linger on my face for a heartbeat longer before he turns, stalking toward the back room. The sharp Italian of his commands cuts through the air, followed by shuffling and a final pained grunt.

Moments later, his men emerge, adjusting their suit jackets. Luca follows, not a hair out of place despite whatever happened in there. He pauses at the door, his hand settling on that silver watch again. "I'm posting guards outside. Actual guards that will interfere with the wrong "customer." Don't argue."

The bell chimes his exit, and the boutique exhales.

Mrs. Chen approaches the counter, her Louboutins clicking against marble. Her silk Hermès scarf whispers as she leans in. "I'll take the Gucci. And perhaps we should discuss moving my weekly appointments to Thursdays?" Her perfectly lined eyes dart meaningfully toward where Luca disappeared. "When he usually visits."

I maintain my professional smile, but my stomach tightens. Of course she noticed his pattern.

The next few days bring a parade of mafia wives, each one more eager than the last to share their thoughts on my "situation." Sophia Romanov, dripping in diamonds that probably cost more than my entire inventory, spends an hour trying on dresses she has no intention of buying.

"You know, darling," she drawls, adjusting her cascading blonde curls in my mirror, "most of us waited years to catch even a glimpse of genuine interest from Luca Mantione. Yet here you are, commanding his personal attention after what? A few months?"

I busy myself retrieving another size. "I don't command anything."

"Oh please." She waves a manicured hand. "That display yesterday? The man practically marked his territory. I haven't seen him touch anyone since—" She stops, red lips pressing together. "Well. Let's just say you've made quite the impression on our ice prince."

Later, Isabella Chen returns, this time without her mother. Her designer bag lands on my counter with a thud. "I need a dress that says 'I'm not afraid of you anymore.'" Her dark eyes gleam. "Now that we know who's got your back, maybe you can finally tell me what you really think about that bitch Katrina's attempt to steal my boyfriend."

The whispers follow me everywhere now. The wives watch me like I'm a particularly fascinating science experiment. Their daughters treat me like their new best friend. Even their guards stand a little straighter when I pass, offering respectful nods.

I've become something new in their world - not quite one of them, but definitely not an outsider anymore. And all because Luca Mantione can't seem to stay away from my boutique.

By the end of the week, I'm exhausted. I don't know what to think of everything when Kendra breezes through my apartment door, a bottle of cabernet in each hand. Her silk pajamas rustle as she kicks off her shoes.

"Girl, we need to talk." She heads straight for my kitchen, grabbing wine glasses. "You have guards now?"

I sink into my plush velvet couch. "They weren't…optional."

"Really?" She arches a perfectly groomed eyebrow, pouring generous servings. "So, I take it you aren't staying away from the guy Jazz warned you about?"

"I can't do anything about it." I accept the glass she offers. "Someone like him doesn't really take orders."

"Yeah, I get that vibe." Kendra settles beside me, tucking her legs underneath her. "I've seen him at events. Man gives me chills. Like looking at a shark in a suit."

I should have expected that Kendra would have crossed paths with him. He does have legitimate businesses, and the marketing firm she works at is one of the most prominent in the city.

The wine is smooth and rich and just what I need right now. "He's not what everyone thinks."

"Oh?" She leans forward, gold hoops swaying. "Do tell."

I trace the rim of my glass, remembering the way his fingers felt in my hair. "There are... moments. When something cracks through that perfect control. I just think that he has a hard time…letting people in."

She gives me a disbelieving look. "And you think he's letting you in?"

I shrug. "Maybe. He keeps coming to see me, doesn't he?" Even if I don't know why. He protects me. Checks on me. And there is something clearly there, with the way his empty eyes fill with something almost like hunger when I challenge him. "He's not emotionless. He's... contained. Until he isn't."

"Girl." Kendra sets down her glass. "You're falling for him."

"I barely know him."

"But you want to." She studies my face. "You're not scared of what he is."

"No." The truth of it settles in my chest. "I'm fascinated by it. By him. The way he wears power like it's woven into his DNA. How he can silence a room without saying a word." I take another sip of wine. "And those rare moments when the mask slips... they're more compelling than any charming smile could ever be."

Kendra shakes her head, but she's smiling. "Only you would find a psychopath's microexpressions romantic."

"He's not a psychopath." I think of his fingers on my chin, possessive and gentle all at once. "He's just... complicated."

Oh, fuck. Maybe I am in way too deep.

I just don't think I care enough to pull back.