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But this isn’t just any man or any situation. It’stheman who messed up my whole life twenty-one years ago and continues the legacy of destruction in the present.
He’s my worst enemy and most villainous rival.
He’s the devil who’d crush me without a second thought.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warn, my voice as rigid as my posture.
“I haven’t said anything.” He feigns innocence, but his voice has lowered to a rumble.
“You’re looking at me weird. Stop it.”
“Weird how?”
“Like a man looks at a woman. I’m not one of your playthings, Kingsley. I’ll cut your dick off in your sleep before you put it anywhere near me.”
“Is that a challenge, sweetheart?” His voice drops to a chilling range at that damn endearment and so does my stomach.
But that’s not the worst of my illogical reaction. Bats explode in sickeningly loud squeaks in the black cave of my chest and the running away option becomes mandatory instead of optional.
However, I attempt to hold on to my fast-withering calm. “It’s a warning.”
“I don’t do well with those.” He steps forward and it takes all my tenacious control to keep from backing up. “In fact, I most definitely take it as a challenge, so keep an eye open in the dark. You never know what will be lurking in the shadows.”
He remains there, making me breathe the notes of cedarwood and fine cigar off him, as if daring me to make a move.
I glare up at him, but no witty comeback comes to mind. If I speak right now, all I’ll spout is nonsense.
“I don’t usually wish people good luck when I intend on breaking them, but you need lots of it, sweetheart.”
With one last provoking smile, he turns around and heads to his car.
* * *
Before my meetingwith Nicolo’s sister-in-law, I practice three breathing exercises and count to one thousand.
My cool is nowhere to be found, though, and neither is my usual meticulous way of organizing emotions. Which is basically shoving them to the basement of my psyche where no one notices them, let alone sees them.
Ever since the showdown with Kingsley in the parking lot this morning, they’ve been viciously attempting to break the surface and turn me into a blasphemous version of an emotional mess.
I contemplated calling Nate, but what the hell would I tell him?
Why is your asshole friend bringing up the crazy a notch?
Or maybe I should ask him why the fuck I’m honoring his crazy with a response other than pure disdain.
Either way, the calling Nate option was aborted soon after it formed. Unlike the jerk Kingsley, I won’t bother him or my daughter on their honeymoon.
Which is why I’m sitting at my desk, posture rigid, fingers tapping away at my keyboard with practiced efficiency. Now, if I could focus, that would be perfect.
The phone call from my assistant announcing that Mrs. Luciano has arrived saves me from the mess going on in my head.
I’m good with work, and despite Kingsley’s sexist, dick-shaped ego, I’m considered one of the best in the law circuit with a win rate of ninety-five percent. Only a point lower than his ninety-six percent and not far from Nate’s one hundred percent.
And no, I don’t closely follow the percentage of wins.
Okay, maybe I do. But deep down, I’ve always considered the asshole a rival. Logically, it should’ve been Nate since he’s a civil lawyer like me.
Kingsley is the most notorious criminal defense attorney in recent history, so our scope of expertise differs vastly. But I’ve often followed how he wins his cases—from the background, of course.
