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But for some fucking reason and by some stupidity, I’d brought my mother’s engagement ring with me and had it resized for her.
I touch my pocket now, feel the velvet box and I’m not sure what the fuck is wrong with me when it comes to this woman. Why the fuck am I giving her this particular engagement ring when what she’ll want to do is use the stones to carve out my eyes as soon as she hears what will be expected of her.
“Cristiano,” my uncle says, picking up on the fourth ring. “We didn’t need the goddamned detail. I have my own security.”
“I’m not taking any chances. She’s with you?”
A pause. “Yes.”
“Can she hear us?”
“Of course not. What’s going on?”
“Something’s going down tonight.”
“I haven’t heard anything from my sources.”
“Where’s Alec?”
“Riding with my men.”
“I told him not to leave her side.”
“It gets a little cramped in the limo.”
“Fine. Don’t mention anything to her. I don’t want her worried.”
“I wouldn’t. Where did you go anyway?”
“Picking up a ring,” I leave the rest out.
“All afternoon? Aren’t you the romantic?”
“I’ll see you in a few minutes.” I disconnect the call and tuck it into my pocket, thinking about my second task this afternoon which was dropping by Charlie’s to give him those names.
I’ve been giving him the names I write in my ledger. The ones that just didn’t feel right to me. I told him the first time I brought them to him to dig up as much dirt as he could. Maybe it’s a way of alleviating my conscience. If I know they’re bad people, it will make what I did a little more okay. Without concrete evidence of their involvement in my family’s murders, things just don’t sit right sometimes.
And I know my uncle won’t always have concrete evidence.
I won’t tell him about giving Charlie the names for a couple of reasons. First, Charlie and my uncle do not like each other. They’re civil when they need to be, but something happened between them years ago, must be fifteen years now, and neither of them has moved on from it.
Second, I know my uncle would find it weak that I need to do this. That I need to clear my conscience.
The driver pulls through the gates of the mansion where the party is being hosted. It’s a private home and I can’t march in with a detail of security guards without raising the alarm that I’m back in business. The Grigori Mafia restored; all nefarious activities resumed. That wouldn’t look good for the charity.
The moment I step out of the vehicle the two women from the charity appear to accompany me inside. I smile and go along, not hiding the fact that I’m checking my watch.
The first person I see when I step inside is Jacob De La Cruz. It turns my already dark mood black.
“Excuse me,” I tell the ladies and unlink my arms.
Jacob smiles, turning to say something to the bartender, so just when I reach him, a whiskey is set on the counter for me.
“I had your preferred brand stocked,” he says.
“What are you doing here?” I take the whiskey, thank the bartender. Not this asshole.
“Since I’m leaving the business, I thought it would be good to rub elbows with this…um…better class of people.”
I swallow some of the whiskey. “There is no better class of people, Jacob. I thought you’d know that by now.”
“Where’s my niece?”
The way he calls her my niece bugs me. Why not just call her Scarlett?
“On her way.”
“Did you tell her the good news yet?”
I open my mouth to answer when his gaze shifts to the door. I swear the air around me shifts and sparks like it’s electric. Alive and humming.
She’s here. I feel it.
But something in Jacob’s expression has caught my attention. His jaw is tight, body stiffening. There’s something not right about the way he’s looking at her. At his fucking niece.
I blink, turn my head and the instant I see her from across the huge room, my breath catches.
Every man in the place has stopped to look at her and I want to punch every single one of them. I can’t blame them, however, can I? She’s fucking beautiful.
Scarlett is standing just inside the entrance, my uncle at her side. She’s looking around the room, lips slightly parted wearing a gown the color of her name. Silk hugs her curves, breasts lifted, nipples poking against the fabric, the slit that splits the dress exposing a toned, slender thigh. It’s just this side of modest.
I’d send the boutique owner a bonus if I hadn’t already seen the charge on my card.
She finally spots me, the dark, smoky liner making her eyes a soft gold. Like sand. The color of the beach on the island when the summer sun hits it.
Her lips are painted to match the dress and her hair is piled on top of her head. I know every man in here has a hard-on for her and every woman wants to be her.
