8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Ethan
W hen biting my tongue doesn’t work, I slam the document in front of me close with a thud that’s loud enough to make Anthony pause his loud chewing.
“What?” he asks, completely and annoyingly oblivious. “Did something happen?”
Yes.
Why did he bring Natalie over? I should’ve stayed at my house and had him come over, but I got a tip that Anthony had stayed out all night and partied with a bunch of people.
People he shouldn’t have been partying with.
Showing up unannounced was the only way to catch him in the act—if there was any act—and discuss something important with him.
Anthony figured out my plan the second he opened the door, but he said nothing about it, even though his breath reeked of alcohol and they’re were bottles in the living room.
I was surprised when he cleaned up almost immediately after I arrived, but I should’ve known there was another reason.
“Did you pay a visit to Royale?” I ask, ignoring his attempt to resume chewing without making a sound.
He holds up a hand and chucks the last bite of the apple into his mouth, chomps down quickly, and then grins.
“Done with that. Yup.” He nods. “You said so.”
“Okay?” I prompt, waiting for the rest of his report. The tip I got was from one of the enforcers I placed in the club’s management because I needed eyes and ears.
He informed me that the manager was using our products—products that were being distributed to high-end customers and people with steep political connections. I sent Anthony to confirm if the tip was true, but I got caught up with the party and then some business with finances over one of our bigger casinos.
Then, the other party where I saw Natalie… which took up most of my time afterward because I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Couldn’t stop thinking about her dress and the generosity of it—the gentle swell of her breasts, her hair, the glint in her eyes when she stood up for herself, and the invisible burn mark she left on my skin when she touched my wrist.
She was in my head. Buried deep.
And just when I thought I was finally getting over the mistake I made of having sex with Natalie—she showed up at the door. Nothing could’ve prepared me for seeing her.
It felt like a punch to the gut, and suddenly, I was back there, in the semi-darkness, with her hands around my neck and her thighs squeezing me close. I could remember her scent from that night—the smell of sex and desperation.
I knew my own feelings, too, like it happened minutes before I opened the door, and my nostrils flared as lust ravaged me, sinking through her jeans and the blouse she had on.
I knew what she looked like underneath everything , and it didn’t help the entire time.
That was why I had to shut myself indoors until she left—an hour ago.
I can still smell her, heavens . I can see her, too, twirling around the kitchen and humming sweetly. I don’t know how long I stood by the door, but it was long enough for my fingernails to dig into my palm and leave deep marks.
“I don’t think he’s using, though.” Anthony’s response cuts through my thoughts, but it’s hard to concentrate, and I clear my throat lightly. “It’s either he’s clean, or the employees are doing a good job of covering up for him,” he adds.
“I see,” I say with a thick voice laced with lust, and I clear my throat again. “Why don’t you dig deeper?”
He shrugs. “Sure. I could do that, or I could ask him myself.”
Pausing my train of thought, I arch my brow, posing Anthony a wordless question. He sighs in exasperation and throws his hands up.
“What can I say? It’s more efficient,” he argues. “And you seem pretty certain that he’s dipped his fingers in the pie. You know what he’d say about that.”
I don’t have to ask to know if he’s referring to my father. While Anthony’s father was ruthless, my dad was worse. Some people called him II Diattore , and others called him II Lupo. He was the dictator and the wolf .
He wouldn’t ask questions before delivering judgment. He hated that I gave people a chance to defend themselves or plead their innocence, but the punishments I meted out afterward were enough to earn his approval and respect.
Still, his system worked because most of the time, the people my father condemned turned out to be guilty. Anthony… not so much.
Changing the subject, I push the conversation towards something less comfortable.
“Why did you hire her again? You know the policy about keeping civilians out of our business. If she starts snooping, which she will,” I add firmly when he tries to interrupt, “will you put her down yourself? Will you do it?” I push as my tone hardens.
My last question comes out sharper than I intended, frustration biting at the edges of my words. It’s not just about Natalie.
It’s about the way she makes me feel. I don’t expect Anthony to answer, and part of me doesn’t want him to.
I don’t want him to say yes.
Anthony waves a dismissive hand, leaning back in his chair with that carefree air he always carries. “You’re overthinking this, cousin. Natalie’s harmless. I did a thorough background check before I hired her. She has no family and no skeletons in her closet. Her only friend is that girl, Danielle. You’ve probably seen her.”
I haven’t. I never pay attention to anything that doesn’t affect me directly. Natalie is the exception to a rule that’s been present all my life.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” I snap, leaning back and crossing my arms, my voice cutting sharper now. “If she were a spy, she’d make sure to cover her tracks. She wouldn’t leave anything obvious for you to find.”
Anthony laughs lightly, shaking his head as though I’ve just told the world’s funniest joke. “A spy? Really, Ethan? You think Natalie Monroe, who’s barely five feet tall and blushes when someone compliments her, is some undercover operative?”
I scowl, not appreciating his dismissive tone. “I didn’t say she’s definitely a spy. I said it’s a possibility. You’re too trusting.”
Anthony leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his face full of amusement. “I know you’re paranoid by nature, but you’ve been spinning in circles over this woman for weeks now. What’s the real problem? Are you worried about her being a spy… or are you worried about how much you’re thinking about her?”
I stiffen, my jaw tightening. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
He smirks, sitting back. “I’m not the one being ridiculous. Look, if you’re so suspicious of her, do another background check. Hell, investigate her yourself.”
"But you’re going to drive yourself mad if you keep overanalyzing everything she does,” he adds. “Sometimes, Ethan, people are just who they say they are.”
Anthony’s words hit harder than I’d like to admit. I don’t respond, keeping my expression carefully neutral as I unfold my arms and rise from my seat.
I don’t want our conversation to escalate into something heated, or I’d call him out on his past lax judgments, including about the lady friend who was a spy, the party he had last night, and more.
But he’s not going to see what I see . Anthony’s always viewed the world from a tilted perspective, which doesn’t allow him to see people for who they truly are. He sees only what they want him to see.
“Where are you going?” he asks as I head to the door.
I look over my shoulder. “Home?”
“Home?” He clicks his tongue. “Come on. You were going to tell me how I can be of use to you. I’ll go back to the club if you like and interrogate the employees some more. If you say someone is using our product, then I’ll find them.”
Huh.
I can sense the sincerity in his tone, but I’m curious about how deep it runs. Exhaling, I turn and head back to my desk.
“Look,” he rests his hands on the desk, acting sober, “I’m sorry I brought Natalie over without telling you. This is your house, after all—the only reason I’m here is because I fucked up. But some of the men will be coming over, and I wanted to have food for them.”
Maybe I’m too harsh on him.
Anthony is two years younger than I am, reckless, and sometimes immature, but he didn’t have a place in the family after his father died. He was just an extension, and he acted out by throwing parties and drinking.
Maybe I can use him.
“Alright,” I nod, flexing my knuckles. “You’ll need a couple of men. I need you to monitor the next shipment of that particular product. From when it gets to shore till it’s distributed. If there’s any shortage of the amount that goes through the club, then you’ll know for sure.”
He grins and points at me. “That’s smart. I’ll do that. And if I find proof?”
“I’ll deal with that.”
Anthony’s face hardens for a moment before he sighs. “You don’t trust me to make decisions on my own, do you?”
My mouth presses into a thin line as I sense an argument brewing.
Division of labor, Ethan. My expression softens. I said I was going to cut him some slack, didn’t I?
“You can handle it,” I say, pushing back the warning voice in my head. “But,” I’m quick to add, “you’re not ending anyone’s life. I trust that you can work it out in a different, more efficient way. ”
Anthony hops onto the edge of my desk, sliding forward with infuriating ease until his face hovers in my line of sight. His grin is borderline smug as he leans closer, his head tilting ever so slightly.
“Come on,” he says, his tone dripping with faux innocence. “What did she do? Did she smile at you the wrong way? Or—” his eyes narrow playfully, “maybe she didn’t smile at you at all. That would explain why you’re in such a mood.”
I glance up sharply, but his grin only widens.
“I’m not talking about her,” I repeat tersely, trying to focus on the document in front of me.
Anthony snorts, clearly unimpressed by my attempt at evasion. “Oh, you’re definitely talking about her, even when you’re not. You’ve got that look—like she’s living rent-free in your head, and you hate it.” He leans in conspiratorially, his voice dropping. “You don’t hate it, though, do you?”
“Anthony,” I warn, my voice low and clipped.
He chuckles, clearly enjoying himself as he leans back on his hands. “Fine, fine. Keep your secrets. But if she’s not a spy, you’re going to owe me one hell of an apology for dragging her name through the mud.”
What about dragging my hands all over her body? Do I owe him for that, too?
Do I owe him for the kisses I couldn’t get enough of and her whimpers that are stuck in my head, playing on a loop at the most inopportune moment?
“How much should we bet on?”
I glare at him, but he’s already hopping off the desk, a knowing smirk plastered on his face as he strolls toward the door.
“Hell,” I mutter under my breath as I stifle the urge to drag my fingers through my hair .
Doing so will only make it glaringly obvious—undeniable physical proof—that Natalie affects me, one I can’t seem to shake no matter how hard I try.
Not that it matters. The way things are spiraling, it’s only a matter of time before Anthony pieces it all together. He’s too irritatingly nosy to let something like this slide unnoticed.
And the worst part?
Avoiding her entirely isn’t an option. With her in the picture, crossing paths is inevitable. Every hallway, every event, every damned room seems to pull us together.
That leaves me with one solution, however absurd it feels. I’ll pretend she doesn’t exist.
How hard can it be to ignore someone who occupies my every waking thought?