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“I’d prefer to keep our relationship professional, Mr. Carveli,” I say frostily.
“I see.”
He pulls Gemma toward his cock. I frown and look away when she opens her lips to take him into her mouth. I’m hardly a prude. I mean, look where I am. But I do not need to see this fuckstick get head four feet away from me. And there is a snowball’s chance in hell of me engaging in a fucking three-way with him.
Massimo groans loudly as Gemma’s blonde head bobs in his lap.
“You’re a betting man, aren’t you, Mr. Black?”
I don’t answer.
“Not an accusation. Merely an observation.” He winks. “We have mutual friends and interests, it would seem.” He shrugs, groaning again as he fists the girl’s hair tighter. “I know for a fact that you like to gamble. Just like I know that you’re good at it. Or maybe just lucky.”
“I think that you have to make your own luck.”
He smiles widely. “I agree.” He grunts deeply, his mouth opening as he pumps Gemma’s head up and down. “Which is why I want to make a wager with you.”
I frown. “I don’t think that’s?—”
“If you can tell me”…he smiles a dark, shark-like smile…“how exactly you know my wife before I come down this whore’s throat—oh fuck yeah,” he groans. “Then I’ll commit another two million a year in billable hours to your firm.”
I stare at him. “Excuse me?”
“You can have that in writing, Mr. Black.”
I stand. “I think it’s time for me to go, Mr. Carveli.”
“Sit. Down,” he growls menacingly. Then the anger melts and his lips curl into a grin. “Go ahead,” he smiles widely. “Ask.”
I need to get the fuck out of here, and away from this lunatic’s psycho head games.
“Ask what,” I hiss.
“Ask what happens if you don’t make the cutoff. If you don’t tell me before I?—”
“Mr. Carveli, all due respect, I have zero interest in playing this game.”
“Who says it’s a game.”
In one motion, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a Beretta. I freeze when he points the barrel of the gun at Gemma’s bobbing head.
“How do you know my wife, Mr. Black.” His jaw clenches. “You don’t have long, FYI.”
What the actual fuck.
“Mr. Carveli,” I hiss, glancing at the door and trying to gauge if I have time to get the fuck out of here, past whatever guards Massimo has outside, and find Dante’s men before this psychopath shoots this poor girl. “I don’t know your wife.”
“Tick...unngh,” he groans deeply, his mouth opening. “Tock, Mr. Black.”
“Put down the goddamn gun?—”
Every muscle in my body tenses, every nerve jangling like a livewire as Massimo grunts loudly and explodes down Gemma’s throat. His hips pump a few times before he slumps back on the couch. Slowly, his eyes drag to mine.
He presses the gun to Gemma’s forehead.
“Maybe you’re not so lucky after all. At least, she isn’t.”
“No—!”
