Do I want him to? I can’t stop staring at him, that’s for sure. The big scary kingpin who listened to me, and gave me cake and a bookshop.
His tattoos aren’t visible right now, but the recollection of them echoes through me. All the years of experience and work and hardship that they represent. And that space on his chest, as though his heart has never been given away. I can’t help but wonder if I could snuggle into that gap on his chest, as he said.
This one day has changed my life. I’m comfortable in a way that I never have been before. I don’t have a gap in my tattoos, but I did have an emptiness. It’s only now Zane has filled it with affection and trust that I’ve noticed how it’s not painful anymore. It’s not an open wound.
Anyone who cared for me would say I was being reckless by trusting a London Mafia Boss. But that’s the point, isn’t it? None of my family really cares, and the restrictive life of a mafia princess has meant I don’t have friends.
And the thing is, I think Zane’s right. We belong together. It’s some bone-deep primal recognition.
He runs his hand up my arm and over my shoulder to my neck, lightly clasping me there, but the power it holds rocks me.
Would it be so bad to give in?
“Tell me,” he says hoarsely. “I need to hear you say?—”
A harsh knock on the door reverberates through the room.
We both freeze.
“Our first customer?” I joke, but something about this isn’t right. Zane’s brow goes dark.
“Bethnal,” comes a man’s voice. It’s posh and authoritative.
Zane closes his eyes and grits his teeth. “Not now, Westminster.”
Westminster. He’s the leader of the London Mafia Syndicate. It’s a big, powerful organisation, and the Essex Cartel’s enemy.
Dread crawls down my spine. This cannot be anything good.
“We’re here to negotiate the return of your captive.”
16
ZANE
Shit.
Looking into Willow’s face, there are flickering emotions. Fear, worry.
“Open the door, Bethnal, before Westminster gets impatient and does stupid things.” Mayfair’s Russian accent has all the grace of a rusty chainsaw.
I shift my hand to cup her cheek. It’s totally covered by my palm. She’s so delicate and tiny.
“Bethnal!” Westminster this time. “Don’t make me break down the door.”
“Alright, calm yourselves,” I call, not looking away from Willow’s face.
She blinks up at me, her lips parting.
“I’m not letting you go,” I tell her. “Do you understand?”
I’m being harsh, but I don’t care.
She nods, and I have to accept that as enough.
“Thank god, I’m too old for shouldering my way through solid objects,” Westminster says as I unlock the door and swing it open. “And shooting the lock would make a mess on this nice vintage?—”
“The answer is no,” I interrupt him.
