Page 8 of Mafia Obsession

I take a seat on one of the sofas and wonder if Kirill islooking for me. Does he know I blew him off for not waiting for me? What would he think about me having a drink with a woman inhisclub?

The man is a territorial psycho.

Minutes pass, and Lourdes is gone longer than I expect. I’m calm and wound up at the same time.

She walks back to me holding two drinks in low tumblers, each frothy with a lime wedge. I’m thinking they’re margaritas, and if that bartender used cheap tequila, I’m bringing him to the roof and throwing him off.

Lourdes looks unsure where to sit. I’d love for her to straddle me and writhe against my hard cock, but I doubt she’d agree to that.

Tonight.

Seated next to me on the sofa, she sets one drink in front of me, the other in front of herself. Our knees brush briefly, and my heart goes offline.

Seeming unaffected, she hands me the change from the hundred.

Another test that she passed.

“Keep it,” I say.

“No. I can’t. And I’m not for sale,” she replies, calm but absolute.

“Good,” I affirm. “I don’t intend to buy you.”

Now I intend to make you beg for a contract with me.

When she sips her drink, bracelets shift, drawing my eyes to a tattoo on the inside of her wrist. A faint alarm bell goes off in my head.

Ink over veins is not a decoration or a trend, and from my experience is not chosen. But forced.

Branding.

Anger flashes, hot and quick. My jaw tightens, but I say nothing about it.

As I drink, her shoulders loosen just a fraction. When her eyes stray to look around the room, I notice a butterfly clip in her hair.

Small. Enamel. Wings spread.

“That is a beautiful ornament in your hair,” I remark.

She reaches up without thinking, fingers brushing it. “Thank you.”

“Why butterflies?”

“I have a thing about them.” She shrugs. “The clip is cheap. But I thought it was pretty.”

“What is it you like about butterflies?”

“They don’t survive by staying the same,” she says. “They change completely. Not just how they look. Everything transforms.”

That’s when I know I’m already in trouble. She doesn’t sound like the woman she’s pretending to be. The dress, the makeup, the cheap jewelry, and the teased hair are not her. So why is she here looking like this?

I grow warm as her tongue flicks against the salt-rimmed glass. I’m about to bring up the contract when her eyes cut to the door, and she suddenly puts down the glass.

“What that fuck are you doing in here?” a man who is about to die says, approaching us.

But he’s not talking to me.

“David!” Lourdes goes breathless, getting to her feet. “You were gone for so long. Someone stole my purse. This nice man got it back for me.”