Page 68 of Revenge on the Mafia

I stopped her instantly with the sharpness of my tone, meant to butcher her confidence. “What the fuck are you doing?”

She stilled. Frowned. “You haven’t been around.”

I gripped my thigh. Forced my gaze to run over her body with an indifference that should freeze Death Valley. Then I sealed it with my horrible, spiteful words. “I’ve got other things to do than fuck you.”

A shocked gasp escaped her. Hurt burst on her face. I wanted to put a knife to my chest. She muttered something in Spanish. Probably something about what an asshole I was. I still wanted to taste it from her mouth.

I glared at her because at that moment, I hated her. Hated the control she possessed over me.

“I’ve got work to do.” I moved my mouse, and with it, the screen started up with a ping. Fuck. Look busy. She’d know I’d done nothing other than think of the one hundred and four ways I could fuck her. I typed all kinds of shit on my keyboard. It beeped errors because I was typing on a fucking Python chart. I turned and gave her a pointed glare. “Get out.”

She moved after a beat. In the opposite direction.

“I got your gift.”

“Gifts,” I corrected.

“Why?”

“For services rendered.”

She went red. If I put my mouth on her, would she feel warm? “Must have been worth the double reward.”

“You’d think.” I let the insult fall in a cold, dead tone. “The second one was so you’d leave me the fuck alone.” She blinked. Took a step back. I ground my jaw and made myself stare at her coldly. She half-turned. Hesitated. I should have been relieved. Then she shook her head and took a deep breath. When she turned back, a flame of determination sparked in her eyes. I knew I was fucked.

ANNA

His gaze was ice. But his tone was full of bite. He didn’t want me near him. That alone was interesting when it shouldn’t have bothered him either way.

Five days ago, he’d married me. Fucked me. Carried me to his bed. Then left me there. Alone. In my wedding dress with cum dripping down my thighs. He’d walked out without a backward glance at me. To say he confused the living shit out of me was putting it mildly.

The next morning I’d woken up to an absent husband, undisturbed sheets next to me, and two gifts on his nightstand. Papá’s pipe with my initials carved into it and a note in his rough handwriting, which left me baffled.

Your father could see patterns no one else did.

What did that even mean? I’d waited to ask him that for five days. All I had was the pipe. Running my hand over it felt like I’d reached beyond my ribcage and touched my heart. The gleam of the wood. The feel of it in my hands. When I held it up to my nose, the scent was filled with nostalgic memories. Vanilla and sweet caramel. His office, which smelled like comfort and him. Memories crept into my soul like distant background music.

Papá sinking to his knees and finding me under the stairs. He wasn’t angry when he took in his pipe and the nail I’d used to carve my initials into it. “You think this is yours too, Anna?” His voice. I’d forgotten that. Amusement in his tone as he’d caught me in the act.

“Everything of yours is mine, Papá.”

His smile. Oh, his smile. I’d forgotten what that looked like.

I wanted to know everything. How did Niccolò get the pipe? What did he mean he could see patterns? How, when, what, where? He’d given me a taste of what to expect. I wanted more. I wanted to know it all. And I’d do anything to find out. Including putting up with his insults.

“I want answers.”

His gaze was fixed on the screen. “You got two, already.”

“Why do you have his pipe? How did you get it in the first place?”

He didn’t give me his attention.

“Did you take it from his office that day? Is it a keepsake? Every man you kill, you take something from him?” I scoffed. “As if taking a life wasn’t enough. Is that it?” My voice climbed. “Is everything in this house from people you’ve killed? Is that why it’s so familiar? Who else did you kill that I know of?”

My breath heaved. He threw me an unimpressed stare. “That’s a lot of questions, and I thought your English was good enough to understand me.”

“Answer me, damn it. I deserve to know. I need to know.”