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What the fuck is wrong with this guy?
Ignoring the fact that his lack of emotion makes me feel uneasy, I keep going. “I won’t. My kind of despair makes me murderous.” I lean toward him, my eyes roaming over his gorgeous face. “You get in my way, you die. Period.”
He has no problem holding my stare. He even breathes me in.
“Do it.”
I feel a crease forming between my eyebrows. “What?”
“Do it, Kayla. I’ve got a leash on NSC tighter than a virgin’s cunt. Trust me when I tell you all their power comes from me. Everything that makes your crew miserable is because of me. I am the one in your way. So do it. Kill me.”
For the first time tonight, I see something on his face. I wouldn’t know quite how to define it. Curiosity? Excitement?
Does he…really want me to kill him?
Shifting on his counter, I put the ice to the side. “Anyone ever told you, you’re fucked in the head?”
“Many times. So, are you going to kill me or what?”
He takes a sip of his whiskey.
“If you manage, your whole crew will be able to take over the North Shore again. Although, I have to tell you the rules first. I’ll allow you a fair try, but if you fail…then we’ll do it my way. I kind of like the getting-down-on-your-knees-and-sucking-my-dick idea you mentioned.” He smiles behind the rim of his glass. Nothing about it portrays happiness. It’s pure mockery. “And once I have my way with you, I promise I’ll think about reeling back NSC.”
“You’re—”
“Fucked in the head. I heard you the first time. Think of it this way: no matter what happens tonight, you’ll be leaving tomorrow morning knowing your crew is safe.”
“Cute that you think it’d take me until tomorrow morning to kill you.”
In that flat voice of his, he states the facts. “You won’t kill me. But I will fuck your pretty body until tomorrow morning, that’s for sure.”
I lick my lips, swallowing my response. I’m more than capable of killing a man. I’m just not sure I can kill this man. No one becomes the right-hand in a Cosa Nostra family by being an easy target. Plus, he’s expecting it, ready to defend himself.
His brow furrows as he looks at me like he doesn’t understand what’s going on in my head, my hesitation. “Are you wondering if you should do it?”
“Of course I’m wondering if I should fucking do it,” I hiss.
“I see.” He takes another sip of his whiskey, making me yearn for the burning liquid down my throat. “Don’t bother. You don’t have a choice. The only way you’re getting out of this house is if I’m dead or you’ve been fucked thoroughly.”
His lack of emotion is stark now. He doesn’t care about pretending anymore. Pretending he can feel, that he might understand my own emotions.
Right now, I’m not totally sure he can. I slowly slide my body to the side, getting some space from him. He’s not standing between my legs, he’s next to me, and I feel the urgent need to move away.
“Why are you doing this?” I’m not more scared than I was. I don’t think fear is something I experience that often anymore. But I want to understand his intentions.
With a shrug, he puts the glass down on the counter. “Because I can.”
When you grow up on the North Shore, you quickly learn to understand when a situation isn’t going to diffuse itself. You become friends with your gut instincts. The animal inside you knows when talking is over and it’s time to fight.
I don’t wait one more second. I grab the tumbler, slamming it against his face. Or so I think.
The fucker expected it. That’s probably the only reason he put it on the counter, so close to my hand. He was inciting me to act, to grab the only weapon I have at my disposal. He takes hold of my wrist before the glass can break against his skin.
“It would be a shame to let you scar my beautiful face.”
I don’t talk back, saving the energy I’ll need. When he pulls me off the counter, I strike my fist against his jaw. He shakes his head, wild eyes looking back at me as he releases my wrist.
“That’s a strong hook you have.”
