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"You're that confident, Miss Hart?" Game on, Ella.
"Do you want to play pool, English snooker, or carom billiards?"
“Eight-ball pool.” She smiles. She is so going down.
"Okay," she says, her voice breathy and soft as she chalks her cue. She purses her lips, and while watching me through her lashes, she slowly, deliberately blows off the excess. I feel it in my dick. Damn.
She lines up the cue ball, then hits it with such force and mastery that it scatters the rack. The corner ball, the yellow striped number nine, dives into the top right pocket. Oh, Miss Hart, you are so full of surprises.
"I choose stripes," she says, and has the nerve to give me a daring smirk.
"Be my guest." This is going to be fun. She prowls around the table, seeking her next victim. I like this new woman. Predatory. Competitive. Confident. Sexy as hell.
She leans over the table, stretching out her arm, so that her blouse rides up, showing a little skin between the hem and the top of her jeans. She hits the cue ball and the maroon stripe bites the dust. Circling the table again, she gives me a cursory glance before leaning over, stretching across the table again, ass in the air, as she pockets the purple.
Hmm. I may need to revise my plans. She's good. She makes short work of the blue but misses the green.
"You know, I could stand here and watch you leaning and stretching across this billiard table all day," I smirk at her. She sulks again. Yes. That's the Ella I know. Or at least until now. I slip off my jacket and examine what's left on the table. Showtime.
I proceed to pocket as many solids as I can; I have some catching up to do. I sink three and line up to pocket the orange. I hit the cue ball and the orange dashes into the bottom left pocket, followed by the white. Shit.
"A very elementary mistake." She grins.
"Ah, Miss Hart. Your turn, I believe." I wave my hand in the direction of the table.
"You're not trying to lose, are you?" She cocks her head to one side. Innocent Ella.
“Oh no. For what I have in mind as a prize, I want to win,” I grin. But then, I always want to win. She narrows her eyes at me, and I would pay good money to know what she's thinking. At the top of the table she bends down to take a closer look at the balls. Her blouse gapes and I catch sight of her breasts. And my cock approves of the view. Big-time. I adjust my stance to accommodate my growing erection.
She straightens up and tilts her head to one side while running her hand up and down the cue. Fuck. She's a sight. She leans over, taps the orange stripe with the cue ball so it aligns with the pocket, then takes the rest from under the table and lines up the shot. As she takes aim at the white, I can see the swell of her breasts down her blouse.
I inhale, sharply. She misses. Good. I aim the cue ball at the red, and it sinks into the left top pocket. Then I try for the top right with the yellow. I hit the cue ball gently. It hits the yellow, but the ball stops just short of its destination. Shit. Miss. Ella grins at me.
"Amateur," she crows. Our game is abruptly interrupted by Francesco knocking on the door. I excuse myself from the game, leaving her momentarily puzzled. Francesco and I huddle in the corner. He wastes no time in delivering the news – a man from Mauro's clan was spotted near Spago, a spy most likely.
“We have some more info on him. He is holding a woman hostage in a gang dispute, an innocent.” Francesco emphasizes that they've detained him at a warehouse. The unspoken question lingers in the air – should they end him now?
I take a moment to assess the situation. "Keep him at the warehouse," I instruct, my voice low and firm. "I'll handle this myself." Francesco nods.
As I turn back, my eyes meet Ella's, who has been observing our conversation. They are dark. The playful expression she had on her face is gone. She is staring right through me.
With disgust. With fear. It’s like she remembers again that I’m the monster. She has to see the dark side. She needs to understand that violence is not a choice for me.
So, I decide to take her with me to the warehouse.
The air in the warehouse is heavy as I walk in with Ella and Francesco. The guy sitting on a chair with his arms and feet tied, has a big serpent tattoo on his chest. He smirks at me and I notice his gold teeth.
He doesn’t talk, as expected. No matter how many times I ask the same questions, he keeps his mouth shut.
I'm running out of patience, and I bark at him again, "Where will you hit next?" The moron stays stubborn, not giving an inch.
Ella's just standing there with Francesco, taking it all in. She shudders every time I raise my voice. But the guy, he won't talk. My anger is about to spill over.
I shoot a quick look at Ella, almost like saying, "See? This is how it goes down." Francesco is holding her by the arm and I can see her legs tremble. The quiet becomes stifling, broken only by my repeated questions.
“Answer me!” I holler again.
“Where is she?” I change my question. He smiles this time. Asshole. And I nod at one of my men near the entrance. He brings me a duffel bag and closes the door behind him. Ella starts to squirm.
