6. Damian
6
Damian
There are three things I believe in: Family. Fortune. And fucking.
Alina Madsen chose family, chose to stay in order to keep her brother safe. That kind of loyalty is something I can respect. Family is everything.
I study her for a second, the pale blond fall of her hair, the proud tilt of her head, the blue eyes that watch me warily. After tonight, I might consider adding a fourth F.
Fate.
I’ve never believed in it before. But maybe I do now.
As I’d knelt beside my father, his blood and brains smearing my hands, I’d sworn to find his killer, to make the bastard pay. Blood for blood. Bone for bone.
But in order to kill the killer, I need to find him first.
Leo was immediately pulled into running the business. As much as he wanted to focus every moment on finding my father’s murderer, he’s been groomed since childhood to step in as boss. So that’s what he did. He sent Dante to New York and Cassio to Chicago to deal with business there while I spoke with informants, followed up on the tiniest lead, watched security tapes for hours, days, searching for some hint that might identify the shooter. There hadn’t been anything to find. It had been a professional hit. The guy had been smart. Careful. I went back and watched the tape from a day before the shooting. Then two days. Then three. And for a split second, I saw a blurry, grainy face I recognized.
An hour later, I had his name.
Enzo Bianchi. 32 years old. Born and raised in New York City until he moved to Vegas last year. That, literally, was all the information I could find on him, even with my sources who can usually uncover nearly anyone’s deepest darkest secrets.
I’d seen Bianchi before. Not just at the casino with Alina, but other times, too. And I realize now that other than the night at the casino, each of those times was when I was with my father.
At the very least, Bianchi knows something about my father’s murder. Quite possibly, he is the killer. Either way, he’s a dead man, but only after he screams and begs for mercy as I flay the skin from his living body. Only after I confirm my suspicion that he was acting on orders from Mikhail Ivanov.
Problem is, Bianchi has disappeared.
So I followed the only lead I had. I sent my people to find out everything they could about the blonde he had been with the night my father was shot.
No, that’s not the entire truth. I would have sent my people to find her even if she’d had nothing to do with Bianchi. She’s been living in my head rent-free for two months. I don’t usually spare a thought for a woman I’ve fucked, never mind one I haven’t. Maybe my fixation is some sort of penance, some sort of guilt over not rescuing the damsel in distress. If I’d rescued her that night, I’d have killed Bianchi before he had the chance to kill my father.
But the white knight thing isn’t my style. I don’t rescue people. I’m the one people beg to be rescued from.
My people had no trouble tracking her down. They’ve been watching her, expecting that Bianchi would get in touch. But she’s had no contact with him. In fact, based on her behavior—she changed her phone number, moved out of her shitty apartment and into an even shittier one, got a new job—I’d say she’s studiously trying to avoid contact. Hiding from him.
Still, she might know something.
I considered having her picked up, questioned. It turned out that fate had a better plan.
Fate delivered Markus Madsen—a guy who’s done a few jobs for the family—straight into my hands. He reached too high and bought into a game he shouldn’t have. My game.
Markus Madsen, brother of Alina Madsen, the woman who might be the key to finding my father’s killer.
The woman I fuck every night in my fantasies.
I’m the type to take advantage of the perfect opportunity, no matter who it hurts.
If I’d had my people pick Alina up, I’d have spooked Bianchi before he reached out to her. If I had my people question her, she might have given me the information I want. Or she might have protected Bianchi. Hard to know.
Now Alina’s focus is on Markus. She’ll be so worried about her brother, she won’t think to guard any information she might have about Bianchi. Alternatively, she’ll offer up everything she knows in order to buy her brother’s freedom. And the icing on the cake? Bianchi will hear that I have her and he’ll wonder exactly what secrets she’s spilling. That might make the rat slink out of his hidey hole.
But honesty makes me acknowledge that there’s another reason I didn’t have my people question her.
From the second I first saw her, the primal, primitive, reptilian part of my brain has screamed mine .
If she has answers, I’ll be the one to pull them from her lush, soft lips.
“Let’s go,” I say with a nod at Vito and Joe. Then I turn to Alina and make a sweeping gesture for her to precede me. “Ladies first.”
She shoots me a look, venom in her blue eyes. If she had a knife, she’d stab me. I’d like her to try. I’d like to pin her underneath me and hold her while she squirms.
“Such a gentleman.” Her words drip sarcasm.
I shrug. “Not really. I just want to stare at your very fine ass in that very short, very ugly skirt.” Her eyes widen. “Now move,” I say, my tone hard.
She moves, walking ahead of me and fuck me but her ass is perfection. Nice and round. It pisses me off that she’s wearing a polyester skirt with an uneven hem and a cheap sequined top. Those legs, those tits, they should be showcased in silk. Or showcased in nothing but stiletto heels and a band of diamonds that I put around her delicate neck.
As if she can hear my thoughts, she glances back at me over her shoulder. Her eyes hold mine for an instant and then she quickly looks away.
I take her to the penthouse on Las Vegas Blvd., one of several properties we own in the city. We pull into the underground. Park. Vito and Joe exit the vehicle, alert for any threat. I get out and walk around to open Alina’s door, positioning myself directly in her path. I don’t move away as she swings her legs to the side, or as she straightens, her breasts just inches from my chest.
She tips her head back to look up at me. “You going to move?” she asks. Asshole , I can see her add silently.
“Such a smart mouth. Maybe I should put something in it to keep you quiet.” I step back just enough to let her pass.
“My teeth are sharp. Little rabbit teeth. And I like to bite,” she says, the slight waver in her tone telling me this is all bravado.
I catch her hand, pulling her to a stop, my chest against her back, her ass pressed against my cock. She freezes.
I take my time running my palm along the side of her waist, her hip, the swell of her ass. Then I lean in and say softly against her ear, “Biting will get you punished.” She sucks in a breath. “I’ll spank those round cheeks until they’re a pretty shade of pink, all flushed and hot from my hand. Then I’ll fuck you, nice and slow, take my time while you beg me to let you come. Maybe I’ll slide a finger in your ass…”
She makes a strangled sound and spins to face me. Her pupils are wide and dark, her irises a thin line of blue. Her lips part. Her breath comes a little faster. The tip of her tongue darts out to wet her lips. She’s afraid of me. And she wants me. It’s a combination that’s alluring as hell. A little fear can be a lot of fun.
Her eyes narrow. She presses those lush lips together. And then her heel slams down on my instep.
“Fuck you,” she says and stalks toward the open door of the elevator that’s currently flanked by Vito and Joe.
I catch her in two strides and walk with her to the elevator where she moves to the opposite corner, as far from me as she can get. I insert the card that allows access to the penthouse. The elevator opens into a marble foyer with double doors opposite us. There are no other doors in this foyer; this is a private floor.
She pauses when we enter the condo, gasping when she sees the view. Lights and night sky and the Sphere, currently aglow in shades of blue and violet. The entire wall is floor to ceiling windows behind a massive white u-shaped sectional. To the left of the couch is a gas fireplace set in a wall of white marble. To the right is a live edge acacia wood dining table surrounded by mid-century modern white chairs and beyond that, a state-of-the-art kitchen complete with a six-burner stove and an island as big as a football field.
“This is where you’ll be staying,” I say. “As my guest.”
“Guests are allowed to leave. Am I?” she asks, her tone flat.
“Not yet.” I nearly smile at the death glare that earns me. Then I hold out my hand. “Phone.”
“What?”
“Give me your phone.”
“No. I’m not going to give you—”
I rest my index finger against her lips. They’re soft and smooth. I wonder if she’ll try to bite me. I’m almost disappointed when she doesn’t. “Give it to me or I will take it. And you will be punished for not obeying me.”
She shakes her head. “I need to know that my brother’s okay. That’s why I want my phone.”
“I’ll be in touch with Markus. I’ll give him your regards.”
Her tough fa?ade cracks, her expression growing desperate. Her eyes are blazing but they’re moist, like she’s fighting tears. “I love my brother, but he’s a fuck up. He’s gotten himself into a mess he can’t fix all by himself. He needs me.”
In my business, the difference between living and dying can depend on spotting a lie. I’m very good at it. And Alina is not lying. She’s terrified for her brother and she honestly believes she can get him out of this.
“Markus is more resourceful than you think he is,” I say. “This is a good challenge for him. It’s only a million dollars.”
She scoffs. “You’re out of touch with reality. You don’t think a million is a lot? It is. It’s the kind of money that can change lives.”
“Or destroy them,” I add.
“You get off on this, don’t you? Walking around in your ten-thousand-dollar suit, flashing your offensively expensive watch, being driven around in your shiny black sedan. Luring victims into your little trap for your own amusement. It’s disgusting. You’re disgusting.”
“Be careful what you say to me, Alina.”
“Or what?” The words are a challenge, but her tone is a breathy whisper.
I close the distance between us, threading her golden hair between my fingers, wrapping it around my wrist, giving a little tug. Not tight enough to hurt—not yet—but more than tight enough to get her attention. She inhales sharply, her chest expands, and her breasts press against the thin material of her shirt. Her nipples are hard pebbles.
“Or what?” I repeat, my mouth close to hers.
She’s panting, her breath fanning my lips.
And I’ve had enough of this game. With a growl, I claim her mouth, hard and insistent, my tongue tasting her, twining with hers. She freezes, not moving, not breathing. Then she makes a delicious sound of submission, of need, and she melts against me as I take what I want.
Fuck, she’s hot. So damn hot.
I pull on her hair, making her head tip back, giving me access to her pale throat. I run my tongue down the line of muscle, then close my teeth on her skin, marking her.
From the second I saw her, I had the urge to possess her.
What the fuck is it about this woman?
The primitive beast inside me roars, mine.