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“How do you know?”
“I can feel it.”
Dominic clicks his tongue, his fingers whispering down my forearm to linger just at my wrist. He takes my hand and lifts just so, studying the detailed embroidery work I put into the beaded sleeves. I designed them to look like tiny floral buds in bloom, the glass beads shimmering under the warm office lighting. My hand looks so small in his big, rough one.
It’s at this moment that I suddenly remember why I was so taken with him the first time, all those years ago. It’s not just his good looks, but his essence. He exudes silent command and respect. I’ve heard stories of people who walk into the room and own it. Standing here before me, there’s no question Dominic is one of them. He’s the sort of man I have no doubt could do whatever the hell he wants, but right now, all he wants to do is look atme. It’s easy to get high off the feeling, his attention unspeakably addictive. And the fact that he’s giving it to me so freely makes me so damn hot it hurts.
He finally steps away with a sigh. “I can’t give out loans based on a feeling, Marina.”
“Arin, please,” I insist, ignoring the panic rising in my chest. “I can pay the loan back, I swear. I have what it takes to be a great designer. I just need somebody to give me a shot. I’ve worked my ass off to get here and—”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“Thenwhy? Aren’t loan sharks supposed to be…”
“What?” he challenges.
I set my jaw. “Don’t loan sharks play it fast and loose with who they give their money out to? You’re counting on people like me to miss payments so you can profit off the interest.”
“Maybe I’m different.”
“Dominic, please.” I peer up at him, my sweaty hands clenched. “If you don’t approve this loan, then that’s it. I’ll be stuck making dresses for quinceañeras and sweet sixteens for the rest of my life. All I need is for someone to give me a chance.”
He leaves my side and returns to his office chair, sitting down with a heavy sigh. “My answer is no,” he says sternly. And then, under his breath, “Trust me. I’m doing you a favor.”
“Favor?” I echo, incredulous. Ignoring the sting of tears in my eyes, I gather my other garments and pack it all away.
Dammit, this is so embarrassing! It’s one thing to be rejected by a bank, but to be turned down by a loan shark, too? Is my dream of becoming a fashion designer really that much of a lost cause? Just when I thought I was making progress, life had to go ahead and kick me in the stomach.
“Okay,” I say, forcing a smile. “Thank you for your time.”
“Marina, wait—”
I’m already out the door, the train of my dress fluttering behind me as I whip around the corner to leave.
Chapter 8
Dominic
Ican’t stop thinking about her. Those dazzling grey eyes, the gentle curl of her raven locks, her pouty, full lips I craved to taste. When I turned around and saw her in that beautiful dress, I damn near lost my mind. Every fiber of my body screamed to hold her, kiss her, tear that beautiful lace off her so I could make her mine in every sense of the word.
There were two perfectly good reasons why I didn’t, though:
If word ever got back to Lorenzo that I fucked a woman on his desk, I can guarantee a watery grave at the bottom of the Hudson
I didn’t want to put Arin in an even more complicated position.
She walked into this office looking for money. I can’t very well make a move on her without my ethics being called into question. I’m a man who takes what he wants, but not at the risk of abusing my power—especially not over a woman in dire straits.
My mother raised a gentleman.
A soldier for the Cosa Nostra, sure, but a gentleman all the same.
Seated behind Lorenzo’s desk, I look over Arin’s business plan again, studying every page with an almost amused fascination. She forgot it in her haste, but I’m thankful she left it behind because now I finally know her name. After five long years of not knowing who she truly was, she’s given me all the answers herself.
Marina Wilson. She apparently works out of a small storefront in Mott Haven. This new information makes me frown. That’s one of the rougher parts of the city, known for rape, murder, assault, robbery… I could go on and on but thinking about Arin walking to and from work alone makes my blood boil. It just isn’t safe for a beautiful woman like her to—
I take a deep breath. Where is this burning protectiveness coming from?
