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God, I want more than anything to march back upstairs, flip her over on the mattress, tie her to the bed posts, and reenact our time together at Christmas.
This time, I’d stay. When she awoke in the morning, bloody and raw from my cock and fingers and knife, I’d work her over until she was pleading for another ride. Begging for me to cause her pain all over again.
And then I fucking would.
“Blimey,” Jonas says, rounding the desk with two dark pink drinks, strategically keeping his eyes trained above my head. “If you need a moment alone with her, just say the word and I’ll take my information and skedaddle.”
Rolling my eyes, I shift so my lap is situated better beneath the desk, taking the tumbler he extends to me. The drink is refreshing and tangy as I tip it to my lips, sipping slowly, waiting for him to continue.
He gulps his vodka cranberry down in five swift swallows, dragging the back of his hand over his mouth when he’s finished. “Right then. On to why I’m here. We’ve been trying to trace the identity of the person who sent you that sex tape for three days now. We’re no closer than we were seventy-two hours ago, and Ivers says there’s no end in sight. Whoever uploaded it onto that flash drive didn’t want to be found.”
“Ivers International is supposed to be the best fucking security firm around, but you’re telling me they can’t find a simple origin file or computer?”
“They’re running the drive through the wringer—Boyd Kelly’s words, not mine—but evidently it’s quite the process. He just wanted to inform you that he’d need an extension.”
Clasping my hands together, I exhale, irritation making my skin itch. “Fine. But if I have to step fucking foot in King’s Trace myself, there will not be an Ivers International when I leave. Make sure he gets the message.”
Jonas raises his eyebrows, his purple eyes piqued with curiosity. “Isn’t that your protégé’s family company?”
True, Kieran Ivers took over for me when I scaled back on my work for the Ricci’s remote operations in Maine; the twenty-seven-year-old hermit took to fixing the way I took to Elena Ricci—as easily as inhaling a single breath and releasing it back into the air.
Though he’s hardly my protégé. I taught him everything I know because I knew he could do it and I needed him to step in, not because I was looking to become a mentor.
Just another cog in my machine.
I wave Jonas off, gesturing for him to go on as I take another sip of my drink. He pulls out a small notepad from the inside of his jacket, flipping to a middle page.
He hesitates, then sighs. “Violet is still rejecting your payments.”
My jaw tics, but I nod still. “To be expected. I didn’t think she’d really warm up to the idea until she met Elena, anyway.”
Jonas scowls. “Does the mafia princess have a particularly persuasive tongue?”
His question sends a wave of desire through me, and I smirk. “Not one she’ll be able to use on my sister, no. I thought maybe if Violet saw me as part of a familial unit, rather than as some random drifter trying to get to know her and pay her debts, that she’d be more receptive to the idea.”
“Right.” He taps his thumb on the side of the notepad, pursing his lips. “About the whole... familial unit, thing.”
Setting my drink down, I pin him with a look. “If this is about me marrying her again, you need to let it go. What’s done is done, and I’m not going to be reversing it. She needs my protection from whoever is trying to blackmail the Riccis, and I need—”
“A wife,” he finishes, setting his notepad down on the desk. I just stare, confusion jumbling my thoughts, and he shrugs. “I know what the terms of your trust are. Your lawyer talks a lot when he’s drunk.”
I make a mental note in the back of my mind to find Miles Parker the next time I’m in Boston and slit his throat.
Jonas’s gaze shifts to the computer, where Elena reclines back on the bed in her room, stretching her arms out above her head. The movement makes her tank top ride up, exposing the smooth expanse of her taut stomach, making me pulse between my legs.
I grip the edge of the desk, trying to get a fucking handle on the visceral way my body reacts to her.
“Anyway, it’s not that.” Jonas pulls his phone from his jeans pocket, unlocking the screen and holding it up for me to see.
My name is entered in the search engine’s box, a dozen news articles trending, some with live updates listed below my scarce bio from when I was a resident at Boston University. Annoyance ratchets down my spine as I scan the headlines, my hand already reaching for my own phone, dialing Rafe’s number before I can suck in another breath.
Disgraced Doctor Kidnaps American-Italian Socialite; Original Media Mogul Fiancé Missing in the Aftermath.
Rage bubbles up inside me, red hot as it licks a path up my sternum, spreading like hot lava through my chest. When my call is declined, crimson splashes across my eyesight, the dial tone making my body vibrate with violence, and I slam the phone down so hard on my desk that the screen shatters.
Shoving back, I push to my feet, smoothing my hands down the front of my suit, sucking in deep, shallow breaths as I try to maintain my self-control.
All he had to do was keep his fucking word, just this one time. I should’ve known better—the only thing Rafael is really known for these days is being a snake, and biting when backed into a corner.
Just days ago, I uprooted his life, taking his most prized possession right out from under him, and while my plan had been to navigate my next steps carefully and intelligently, this little ploy changes things.
If Rafe wants a war, I’ll bring the fucking battle to his feet.
Walking over to the wardrobe in the back corner of my office, I yank the door open and pull out a fresh pair of black leather gloves. Sliding them over my hands, reveling in the familiar stretch of the material against my skin, I admire the sleek look, knowing that soon they’ll be painted red.
And despite the noisy, intrusive thoughts playing on repeat in my head as I leave the Asphodel with Jonas, my nervous system has never been more at ease.
