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It’s clear the speck of power has gone to his head.
But that?
That I can handle.
A self-important man who forgets the power a woman has to destroy every hope and dream he’s ever had if he looks at her wrong? I can handle that.
In fact, I thrive on that kind of underestimation.
“My father has a debt,” I say, and he waves his hand at the seat across from him, indicating I should sit. But then again . . .
I know how the game is played. His desk chair is luxurious, dark, rich leather, and at least six inches higher than where the basic four-legged chair sits.
He’ll stare down at me from that chair.
The intention is to put who sits there in their place, to remind them who has power and who does not.
I’ll stay standing, keep my power, thank you very much.
He stares at me, waiting for me to obey, to be the sweet, innocent thing I’m sure he thinks I am.
I stare back.
“Yes. Tables and horses,” Paulie says, breaking the silence, and I let a tiny, insignificant smile pop to the corners of my lips. A win. “He’s racked up quite the bill, hasn’t he. Unfortunately, it seems the man we originally had on the issue went a bit too far, to his own demise.”
Johnny Vitale did just that, kidnapping my sister to use her as leverage against me. You see, Johnny knew who I am and the potential power that flows in my blood.
But with the way Paulie is staring at me like I’m insignificant and nothing more than a small-town mayor’s daughter, I'm pretty sure he has no idea who I am. To him, I have no true purpose, no value.
How does he not know I have Russo blood running in my veins? That the right offer could make him a king in this underworld?
“I want to settle it.” His eyebrow raises. “I want it settled, and I want him blacklisted.” I tip my chin up just a hair with my words, words I practiced in the mirror of my high-rise apartment as I packed all my things up to move into the tiny apartment in Hudson City.
Paulie laughs.
The man laughs at me, and with that, I vow to make his version of retribution hurt just a bit more than I originally planned.
“Cute. You’re cute, girl,” he says, but I don’t laugh. “You got a 100 large, sweetheart?”
I don’t twitch.
I don’t move.
I don’t show any shock on my face.
Shock is weakness.
I am power.
I am strength.
I have a plan.
Instead, I let a small smile play on my lips.
“I think you know the answer to that, Paulie.” My voice holds exhaustion, like I’m already over having to go through these hoops to get to the conversation we need to be having. If my father were here, he would gasp. He would give me a swift kick under a table, a glare, or a stern, “Lilah!” This man should be addressed as Mr. Carluccio. He should be sir. I should call him literally anything other than his first name.
His jaw ticks at the blatant disrespect.
