Page 7 of Mafia Obsession

Even before I know her last name, I’m trying to figure out which family she’s tied to. If I take her, will it start a war? And with who? The Bratva? She’s in their club. The Italians, perhaps?

I’ll burn down whatever house thinks they can claim her. If she belonged to Kirill Volkov, she would not be wandering around the gambling floor alone.

“The lounge is this way,” I say, my arm extended to steer her in that direction.

She moves but hesitates when we get closer to the velvet rope.

“I… I don’t think I belong in there,” she says.

I stand over her, ignoring how I feel like a predator. “If I didn’t think so, I wouldn’t have suggested it.”

She eyes me, her gaze longing for this all to make sense to her. “One drink,” she says. “Then I’m leaving.”

“Of course,” I reply.

You’re not going anywhere.

I hold the door open for her, watching her ass in that tight, pink dress. Now that I know she’s real and not some aberration or mirage, I’ve concluded that I must see these feelings through.

The VIP bar is bathed in soft amber light. There’s an intimate black granite bar with leather stools. More velvet sofasand polished wood cocktail tables are tucked in the back. The bartender does a double take because I don’t usually come in here, and I certainly don’t parade women around this club.

I steer Lourdes toward the sofas, and she sits carefully, gracefully. Back straight, her legs tucked under and to the side. She was taught to sit like that. And I’m not sure how to feel about someone hardwiring her brain on how to sit, how to talk, how to…

Submit.

Fuck.

“What would you like to drink?” I ask.

She studies me, fingers tapping the top of the purse. I clock the rings and other jewelry now that I’m closer. Cheap crap. That will change.

“I don’t usually accept drinks from strangers,” she says softly.

“Smart woman. And don’t accept one from me.” I remove a one-hundred-dollar bill from my wallet and hold it out to her. “Go to the bar. Order it yourself.”

Her eyes flick to the bill. “And if I don’t come back?”

“Then I’ve misjudged you.” I lean in. “That’s not who you are, is it?”

That makes her smile, and now I’m feral to see it again. Every word out of my mouth to this woman is unexpected.

“I’ll be right back.” She reaches for the money.

I don’t release the bill, tugging it until our eyes lock. I want to read what’s in her head. What is she thinking?

“Order two drinks,” I say, letting go of the money.

She exhales sharply. “I don’t think I can drink two?—”

“One is for me.”

“Oh, right,” she chirps. “What do you want?”

You. On your knees. Tied up and sucking my cock.

“Order two of whatever you’re having. I trust we like the same thing.”

She nods, and I watch her sashay to the bar, cataloging every curve. The straight line of her spine. The way she doesn’t look over her shoulder to see if I’m watching.