Page 26 of Vow Of Fire

“I told you, that’s not an option.”

“Why the hell not? He’ll clear everything up.”

“No, he won’t. He won’t even take my call.”

I saw his lips tighten and knew he regretted giving me that last piece of information. “Because the Malakovs are enemies of the Marcellis?”

He grunted. “Now you’re getting it.”

I surveyed him for a moment. Those silver eyes were hard and unreadable, his stance tense. My eyes were drawn to the ink on the back of his right hand. A single rose, beautifully done, its thorned stem twisting down into the body of a snake that coiled around his wrist.

Above it, climbing into the sleeve he hadn’t bothered to roll down, I caught the hilt of a dagger driven through some kind of military badge. The rest disappeared under his cuff, but I’d seen enough to know every piece meant something. Dante didn’t strike me as the type of man to have tattoos just for decoration.

I forced my gaze back to his. “Why would they ambush your men?”

“That’s not your concern.”

Ugh. He was insufferable.

“Fine, but Malakov doesn’t even live in New York.”

“He has an apartment in Manhattan.”

I shrugged. “Well, I only ever deal with Mikhail.”

I got to my feet. I’d been left to my own devices all day with nothing to occupy my time, only to be asked the same dumb questions as before.

He immediately did the same.

Ignoring him, I paced up and down. Now I knew how a caged animal felt. Tension coiled through my muscles, and I wanted to lash out, to hit something, to pound at his chest, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good.

Eventually, I turned to face him. “I don’t know what you want from me. I can’t make up stuff just to satisfy you. I don’t know anything about your business, your mobster family or your beef with Malakov, and quite frankly, I don’t want to. I want to go home.”

His voice dropped. “I can’t let you do that.”

I’d had enough. Storming over to the door, I wrenched the handle. He was on me so fast I hadn’t even taken a full breath when his hand enclosed over mine.

“Let go, Ophelia.” His growl was laced with steel.

It didn’t open anyway. The darn thing was locked, as I suspected it would be. He must have the key on him somewhere. Jacket pocket, maybe.

“Don’t call me that,” I hissed. It was too personal, too intimate.

His hand was warm and firm on mine, with slight calluses on the palm, which told me he wasn’t a stranger to using his hands.

A low murmur. “I’ll call you what I want.”

I held on, refusing to let go on principle.

“It’s no good, it’s locked,” he said, his lips almost brushing my ear. The hairs on my neck prickled, and it wasn’t from fear. Not all of it, anyway.

With a dramatic sigh, I released the door handle. What was the point? But when I attempted to turn around, he was blocking my path.

“Excuse me,” I said stiffly.

He didn’t move, effectively trapping me between his body and the door. I swear I could feel the heat radiating off him. It enveloped me, sunk into my skin. Made my blood boil.

His eyes lasered into mine. “I can’t work out if you really are as innocent as you make out, or if you’re just a very skilled liar.”